NormalizeHEADmain

8 files changed, 0 insertions, 65484 deletions

diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.txt b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index a788d78..0000000
--- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,15628 +0,0 @@
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: Ramona
-
-Author: Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-Posting Date: December 31, 2008 [EBook #2802]
-Release Date: September, 2001
-Last Updated: March 15, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Reed
-
-
-
-
-
-RAMONA
-
-By Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing
-was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to
-put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the
-Senora's eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head
-of his mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch,
-the Senora thought. It had been always, “Ask Senor Felipe,” “Go to Senor
-Felipe,” “Senor Felipe will attend to it,” ever since Felipe had had the
-dawning of a beard on his handsome face.
-
-In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all
-questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place,
-from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the
-Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and
-generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,--as for that matter, exceedingly
-clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever for the day
-and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere surface of it,
-if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow hot and
-cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New
-Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,--the waves of them
-all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had
-had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had brought
-her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said anything
-about herself, which she never did,--one of her many wisdoms. So quiet,
-so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to veil such an
-imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always passing
-through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did it;
-adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous force,
-wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect
-it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her rosary
-hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of
-mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a
-sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like her race, but
-sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice heightened this
-mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either loud or fast.
-There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech, which came
-near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which people
-speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear as if
-she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took heart;
-when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that the
-speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that
-she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, or
-in a way to best attain her ends.
-
-About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head
-shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him
-from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which
-would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's.
-
-Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were
-ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back
-with the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture.
-“There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,” he said one
-morning,--“at least a thousand;” and by the time they were done, Luigo
-would surely be back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in
-bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the
-wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The
-Senora did not realize how time was going; there would be no shearers
-to be hired presently, since the Senora was determined to have none
-but Indians. Of course, if she would employ Mexicans, as all the other
-ranches in the valley did, it would be different; but she was resolved
-upon having Indians,--“God knows why,” he interpolated surlily, under
-his breath.
-
-“I do not quite understand you, Juan,” interrupted Senora Moreno at the
-precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had
-escaped Juan's lips; “speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in
-my old age.”
-
-What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on
-Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal
-as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he
-instantly and involuntarily said, “Beg your pardon, Senora.”
-
-“Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan,” the Senora replied with
-exquisite gentleness; “it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I
-have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did.
-But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he
-had positively engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn,
-Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for
-them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the
-best shearers in the country. He will be well enough in a week or two,
-he thinks, and the poor sheep must bear their loads a few days longer.
-Are they looking well, do you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one?
-General Moreno used to say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a
-pound, while it was on the sheep's backs.”
-
-“Yes, Senora,” answered the mollified Juan; “the poor beasts look
-wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all winter.
-We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any.
-Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that--Luigo will
-bring his flock back.”
-
-The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which
-Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous
-epithet before Luigo's name.
-
-This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan
-Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down
-as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe.
-
-Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: “Senor Felipe can see
-no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him,
-he will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep
-worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While
-I can have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well;
-but he is no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of
-the very lambs themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and
-starve them the next; and I've known him to forget to give them water.
-When he's in his dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do.”
-
-During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the
-Senora's countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen
-it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down into the
-upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping and
-gambolling and barking at his feet.
-
-“Down, Capitan, down!” he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him;
-“thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice.”
-
-“I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito,” said the Senora in a sweet
-but icy tone. “It is not well for one servant to backbite another.
-It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father
-Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to confess this sin
-of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being.
-If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out
-homeless on the world some day; and what sort of a deed would that be,
-Juan Canito, for one Christian to do to another? I fear the Father will
-give you penance, when he hears what you have said.”
-
-“Senora, it is not to harm the lad,” Juan began, every fibre of his
-faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach.
-
-But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more
-from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual
-slow pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left
-hand, and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads.
-
-“Prayers, always prayers!” thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed
-her. “If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight
-road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to do, if
-he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to
-stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything?
-Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the General died,--an ill
-day! an ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set
-me to confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've
-got me to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's
-a man, maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!” And the old man stamped his
-foot with a not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in
-which he felt himself put.
-
-“Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!” he muttered aloud. “Ay, that
-will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,”--at which slip of the
-tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,--“and I'll ask him to
-give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy
-at the head of everything, and a doting mother who thinks he has the
-wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden
-time. He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now,
-much smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill
-day indeed, the saints rest his soul!” Saying this, Juan shrugged his
-shoulders, and whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of
-the south side of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for
-twenty odd years his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe
-of a morning. Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however,
-a thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick
-sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could
-only come from something in connection with sheep; and, true to his
-instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run,
-and looked up in his master's face waiting for explanation and signal.
-But Juan did not observe him.
-
-“Ha!” he said, “Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's
-see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come
-off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the
-chapel, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least
-two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by that and by
-the confessions. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad.
-I recollect now, it was the same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a
-good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and
-then; and it's like old times to see the chapel full of them kneeling,
-and more than can get in at the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's
-heart to see them all there, as if they belonged to the house, as
-they used to: and now I know when it's to be, I have only to make my
-arrangements accordingly. It is always in the first week of the month
-the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough
-in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or
-thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for
-not being back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow boughs
-for the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and
-another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming head
-he's got on his shoulders.”
-
-Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor
-Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him
-in good humor for the day,--good humor with everybody, and himself most
-of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the
-whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole
-width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner
-of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid
-content. The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen
-quarters of Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable
-as in the grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth
-across Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by
-help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though
-loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen.
-
-“What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?” saucily asked
-Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out
-of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled
-that the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as
-Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so
-safe in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the
-under-shepherds could testify.
-
-“The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita,” answered Juan
-quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock
-bow towards the window.
-
-“He! he! Senorita, indeed!” chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the
-cook. “Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his
-betters;” and she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean water
-so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had
-the appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand
-the whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys,
-all set up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed to the four corners of
-the yard as if scattered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket,
-the rest of the maids came running,--Anita and Maria, the twins, women
-forty years old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought
-home his handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the
-Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old
-Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was
-said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could
-tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing
-except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was
-never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one
-crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old
-Juanita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans
-in the pod (tons of them, one would think), enough to feed an army. But
-then, it was like a little army even now, the Senora's household; nobody
-ever knew exactly how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men
-in the fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or
-widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's
-husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or down the valley.
-When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages;
-but who were fed and lodged under his roof, that was quite another
-thing. It could not enter into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make
-either count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful niggardly
-thought.
-
-To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the
-place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the
-work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled.
-In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never
-less than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his
-gates each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time
-had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden
-rush and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's
-letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, “Good heavens,
-do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!” the
-Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was,
-“Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has
-to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help
-her.” And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to
-her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The
-picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it
-met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,--only a second,
-however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to
-have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was
-saying to him, “Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and
-are better,” there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation,
-“O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his
-father! He is fit for a kingdom!”
-
-The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had
-been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding
-it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a
-king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a
-throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up,
-better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said,
-whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the
-face of his father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe
-once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the
-gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at
-the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which
-his father had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her
-first look at him,--fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and
-saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her
-in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again.
-
-“Mother, mother mia,” cried Felipe, “I will not wear them if it makes
-you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed
-parade;” and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to
-unbuckle the sword-belt.
-
-“No, no, Felipe,” faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. “It is my
-wish that you wear them;” and staggering to her feet, with a burst of
-tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many
-times--never unkissed--buckled, in the days when her husband had bade
-her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. “Wear
-them!” she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry
-of tears,--“wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican
-officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base,
-usurping feet on our necks!” And she followed him to the gate, and stood
-erect, bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was
-out of sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly
-to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at
-the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that
-she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From
-which part of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to
-imagine.
-
-Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father
-Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not
-in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of
-Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still
-more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on
-between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep
-on the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two
-together and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were,
-and not to be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation.
-
-“Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,” said
-the Senora. “I suppose you are still of the same mind about it,
-Felipe,--that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As
-the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem
-a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very
-restive. He is getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your
-control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my
-part, am like to forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to
-lean on.”
-
-Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile
-of filial affection and gratified manly vanity. “Indeed, my mother, if
-I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the
-saints;” and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at
-once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a
-lover might have done. “You will spoil me, mother,” he said, “you make
-me so proud.”
-
-“No, Felipe, it is I who am proud,” promptly replied the mother; “and I
-do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me
-a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me
-through the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content,
-seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman
-should; that is, so far as now remains possible in this unfortunate
-country. But about the sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it
-begun before the Father is here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready
-with his band. It is but two days' journey for a messenger to bring
-him. Father Salvierderra cannot be here before the 10th of the month. He
-leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and he will walk all the way,--a good
-six days' journey, for he is old now and feeble; then he must stop
-in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the
-Lopez's,--there, there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very
-earliest that he can be here,--near two weeks from now. So far as your
-getting up is concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be
-nearly well by that time.”
-
-“Yes, indeed,” laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and
-giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the
-fringed canopy roof shake and creak; “I am well now, if it were not for
-this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me
-good to get out of doors.”
-
-In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It
-was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it;
-and two weeks looked long to wait.
-
-“It is always thus after a fever,” said his mother. “The weakness lasts
-many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two
-weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood
-at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting
-for you for that!”
-
-“He said that, did he!” exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. “The old man is
-getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but
-myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when
-I please, and not before.”
-
-“I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till
-the Father comes, would it?” asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the
-thing were evenly balanced in her mind. “The Father has not that hold
-on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in
-Juan himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is
-spreading in the country since the Americans are running up and down
-everywhere seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It
-might vex Juan if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father.
-What do you think?”
-
-“I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for
-my pleasure,” answered Felipe, still wrathful, “and that is the end of
-it.” And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno
-had had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito
-himself suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As
-for Felipe, if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother,
-and not he, who had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better
-deferred until the arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara,
-and that nothing should be said on the ranch about this being the real
-reason of the postponing, Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and
-have thought that person either crazy or a fool.
-
-To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never
-to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men,
-as instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that
-one gets from a hand or a foot,--this is to triumph, indeed: to be as
-nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have
-been men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who
-have sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a
-great degree. By it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors,
-sovereigns; and have grasped, held, and played with the destinies
-of empires. But it is to be questioned whether even in these notable
-instances there has ever been such marvellous completeness of success
-as is sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an
-instinct and not an attainment; a passion rather than a purpose.
-Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just that
-difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of talent and
-the stroke of genius.
-
-Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.
-
-
-
-
-II
-
-THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found
-in California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half
-elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men
-and women of degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of
-the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still
-the law of the land, and its old name, “New Spain,” was an ever-present
-link and stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its
-people.
-
-It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more
-also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen
-again on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still;
-industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its
-century,--in fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left
-standing one such house as the Senora Moreno's.
-
-When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a
-radius of forty miles,--forty miles westward, down the valley to the
-sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good
-forty miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very
-strictly defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon
-land by inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno
-owned all this land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It
-was not and could not be answered to the satisfaction of the United
-States Land Commission, which, after the surrender of California,
-undertook to sift and adjust Mexican land titles; and that was the
-way it had come about that the Senora Moreno now called herself a poor
-woman. Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away from her; it
-looked for a time as if nothing would be left. Every one of the claims
-based on deeds of gift from Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most
-intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by the board in one
-batch, and took away from the Senora in a day the greater part of
-her best pasture-lands. They were lands which had belonged to the
-Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the mouth of the valley
-down which the little stream which ran past her house went to the sea;
-and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora, when she was
-young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all the way on
-their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip of shore.
-No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them always
-as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least
-realized that the taking possession of California was not only a
-conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the
-real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which
-gave up the country, as to the country itself which was given up.
-Provinces passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of
-great powers, have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none
-of the dignities or compensations of the transaction.
-
-Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself
-beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such
-a transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country;
-probably none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it.
-
-Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the
-valley was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which
-had once belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura;
-and after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and
-adjudications were ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of
-what would have been thought by any new-comer into the country to be a
-handsome estate, but which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora
-a pitiful fragment of one. Moreover, she declared that she should never
-feel secure of a foot of even this. Any day, she said, the United States
-Government might send out a new Land Commission to examine the decrees
-of the first, and revoke such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a
-thief. Nobody need feel himself safe under American rule. There was
-no knowing what might happen any day; and year by year the lines of
-sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism deepened on the Senora's
-fast aging face.
-
-It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out
-a road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of
-past the front. “It is well,” she said. “Let their travel be where it
-belongs, behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the front doors
-of our houses, except friends who have come to visit us.” Her enjoyment
-of this never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wagons
-or carriages belonging to the hated Americans, it gave her a distinct
-thrill of pleasure to think that the house turned its back on them. She
-would like always to be able to do the same herself; but whatever she,
-by policy or in business, might be forced to do, the old house, at any
-rate, would always keep the attitude of contempt,--its face turned away.
-
-One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was
-opened,--a pleasure in which religious devotion and race antagonism were
-so closely blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of priests to
-decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. She caused to be set
-up, upon every one of the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful
-rolling sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross; not a
-hill in sight of her house left without the sacred emblem of her faith.
-“That the heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the
-estate of a good Catholic,” she said, “and that the faithful may be
-reminded to pray. There have been miracles of conversion wrought on the
-most hardened by a sudden sight of the Blessed Cross.”
-
-There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn,
-outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller
-who had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left
-or the right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses,
-which he couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not
-often happen that the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle
-heart journeying by, and thus justified the pious half of the Senora's
-impulse? Certain it is, that many a good Catholic halted and crossed
-himself when he first beheld them, in the lonely places, standing out in
-sudden relief against the blue sky; and if he said a swift short prayer
-at the sight, was he not so much the better?
-
-The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of
-the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which
-looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner
-court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the
-family life went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when
-it was necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was
-done here, in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept,
-were washed, sat in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said
-their prayers, took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita
-shelled her beans there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor,
-till towards night they were sometimes piled up high around her, like
-corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and shepherds smoked there,
-lounged there, trained their dogs there; there the young made love, and
-the old dozed; the benches, which ran the entire length of the walls,
-were worn into hollows, and shone like satin; the tiled floors also were
-broken and sunk in places, making little wells, which filled up in times
-of hard rains, and were then an invaluable addition to the children's
-resources for amusement, and also to the comfort of the dogs, cats, and
-fowls, who picked about among them, taking sips from each.
-
-The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must
-have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms
-opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four
-steps higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the
-look of a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great
-red water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission,
-stood in close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing
-fine geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's
-passion for musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong
-that she sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father
-Salvierderra in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and
-giving them to him, said, “I do not know why it is, but it seems to me
-if I were dead I could be brought to life by the smell of musk.”
-
-“It is in your blood, Senora,” the old monk replied. “When I was last in
-your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room,
-and under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so
-filled the room with its odor that I was like to faint. But she said
-it cured her of diseases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby
-then.”
-
-“Yes,” cried the Senora, “but I recollect that balcony. I recollect
-being lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of blooming
-yellow flowers; but I did not know what they were. How strange!”
-
-“No. Not strange, daughter,” replied Father Salvierderra. “It would have
-been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with
-the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remember this far more
-than they do.”
-
-Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there
-were many sorts of climbing vines,--some coming from the ground, and
-twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls,
-swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against
-the walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished,
-shining smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians,
-nobody knew how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient
-creatures, with only stones for tools.
-
-Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the
-Senora's canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different
-generations, raised by the Senora. She was never without a young
-bird-family on hand; and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it
-was thought a piece of good luck to come into possession of a canary or
-finch of Senora Moreno's 'raising.
-
-Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all
-was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always
-green, never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never
-without flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early
-spring, a fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from
-the hills on the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise
-clouds had fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand
-stretched away other orchards,--peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate;
-and beyond these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or
-bloom or fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south
-veranda.
-
-A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with
-grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led
-straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden,
-to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade
-of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone
-washboards on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling,
-and no running away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to
-the eye of the Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had
-known how picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting
-the dripping linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the
-stones, sousing it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each
-other's faces, they would have been content to stay at the washing day
-in and day out, for there was always somebody to look on from above.
-Hardly a day passed that the Senora had not visitors. She was still
-a person of note; her house the natural resting-place for all who
-journeyed through the valley; and whoever came, spent all of his time,
-when not eating, sleeping, or walking over the place, sitting with the
-Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in winter were cold enough, and
-in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her friends
-indoors. There stood on the veranda three carved oaken chairs, and a
-carved bench, also of oak, which had been brought to the Senora for safe
-keeping by the faithful old sacristan of San Luis Rey, at the time of
-the occupation of that Mission by the United States troops, soon after
-the conquest of California. Aghast at the sacrilegious acts of the
-soldiers, who were quartered in the very church itself, and amused
-themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of the saints'
-statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after night,
-bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some
-articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little
-hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more
-stealthily, he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of
-a cart, under a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who
-felt herself deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything
-as a sacred trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again,
-whenever the Missions should be restored, of which at that time all
-Catholics had good hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the
-Senora's house was without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the
-Madonna; and some had two; and in the little chapel in the garden the
-altar was surrounded by a really imposing row of holy and apostolic
-figures, which had looked down on the splendid ceremonies of the San
-Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no more benignly than they
-now did on the humbler worship of the Senora's family in its diminished
-estate. That one had lost an eye, another an arm, that the once
-brilliant colors of the drapery were now faded and shabby, only enhanced
-the tender reverence with which the Senora knelt before them, her eyes
-filling with indignant tears at thought of the heretic hands which
-had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling wreaths which had been
-placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial
-at which they had figured in the Mission, had been brought away with
-them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had replaced each one,
-holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue itself.
-
-This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built
-by the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four
-children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome
-Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's
-time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living
-within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be
-witnessed there was like the scenes at the Missions,--the chapel full of
-kneeling men and women; those who could not find room inside kneeling
-on the garden walks outside; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous
-vestments, coming, at close of the services, slowly down the aisle, the
-close-packed rows of worshippers parting to right and left to let him
-through, all looking up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him
-offerings of fruit or flowers, and holding up their babies that he might
-lay his hands on their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever
-officiated in the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He
-was a Franciscan, one of the few now left in the country; so revered and
-beloved by all who had come under his influence, that they would wait
-long months without the offices of the Church, rather than confess
-their sins or confide their perplexities to any one else. From this
-deep-seated attachment on the part of the Indians and the older Mexican
-families in the country to the Franciscan Order, there had grown up,
-not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in the minds of the later-come
-secular priests, and the position of the few monks left was not wholly a
-pleasant one. It had even been rumored that they were to be forbidden
-to continue longer their practice of going up and down the country,
-ministering everywhere; were to be compelled to restrict their labors
-to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa Inez. When something
-to this effect was one day said in the Senora Moreno's presence, two
-scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought herself,
-she exclaimed, “That day, I burn down my chapel!”
-
-Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of
-unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself.
-
-“I spoke rashly, my son,” she said. “The Church is to be obeyed always;
-but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but the Superior of
-their own order; and there is no one in this land who has the authority
-to forbid their journeying and ministering to whoever desires their
-offices. As for these Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot
-abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood in his veins!”
-
-There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly
-attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the
-gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented
-the things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father
-Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship
-which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara
-Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was
-at that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment
-and romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the
-gayeties, excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the
-ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as
-the most beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the
-navy, and men of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast
-from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe
-Moreno, one of the most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her
-wedding ceremonies were the most splendid ever seen in the country.
-The right tower of the Mission church at Santa Barbara had been just
-completed, and it was arranged that the consecration of this tower
-should take place at the time of her wedding, and that her wedding feast
-should be spread in the long outside corridor of the Mission building.
-The whole country, far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days;
-open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating, drinking, and making
-merry. At that time there were long streets of Indian houses stretching
-eastward from the Mission; before each of these houses was built a booth
-of green boughs. The Indians, as well as the Fathers from all the other
-Missions, were invited to come. The Indians came in bands, singing songs
-and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the Santa Barbara Indians went
-out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on
-the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora and her bridegroom,
-splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, whenever they
-appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third
-day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles in their
-hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and round the
-new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy water
-on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a
-blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the
-newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied
-by several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan
-Fathers, up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and
-being warmly welcomed and entertained at each.
-
-General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the
-frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers
-he, being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and
-enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material
-assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having
-heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission
-churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers
-either in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the
-daughter of a distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara
-Superior, he had linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and
-interests of the country.
-
-When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned
-out to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the
-Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer,
-took the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force
-compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high
-up by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across
-the corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously
-undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly.
-
-“Oh, let them do it, if they like,” he cried, laughingly, to Padre
-Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back.
-“Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures.”
-
-On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all
-his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to
-be driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry
-belonging to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For
-music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing,
-quacking of the fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and
-whip-cracking of the excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came
-the turkeys, then the roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and
-then the yellow, next the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle
-long files of geese, some strutting, some half flying and hissing in
-resentment and terror at the unwonted coercions to which they were
-subjected. The Indians had been hard at work all night capturing,
-sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and file of their novel
-pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight never was seen,
-and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other. Before it was done
-with, the General and his bride had nearly died with laughter; and the
-General could never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily
-again.
-
-At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the
-Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor,
-balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of
-festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The
-belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for
-these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to
-her. This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman.
-She was then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then,
-underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look
-thoughtful, tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the
-reflection of those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made
-her, as years developed her character and stormy fates thickened around
-her life, the unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate
-adherent of the Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions,
-downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint,
-her poise, remained the same. She simply grew more and more proudly,
-passionately, a Spaniard and a Moreno; more and more stanchly and
-fierily a Catholic, and a lover of the Franciscans.
-
-During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions,
-under the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside
-herself. More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by
-no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of
-the Missions to more energetic action, to implore the governmental
-authorities to interfere, and protect the Church's property. It
-was largely in consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor
-Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the
-Missions south of San Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his
-political head, and General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the
-skirmishes of the insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the
-country.
-
-In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back
-to health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her
-unhappy country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she
-saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties
-melting away, like dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest
-administrators and politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the
-unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven
-from the country or dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted
-herself to what, she was forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable
-will of God for the discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort
-of bewildered resignation she waited to see what further sufferings
-were to come, to fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some
-mysterious purpose, the faithful must endure. But when close upon
-all this discomfiture and humiliation of her Church followed the
-discomfiture and humiliation of her country in war, and the near and
-evident danger of an English-speaking people's possessing the land,
-all the smothered fire of the Senora's nature broke out afresh. With
-unfaltering hands she buckled on her husband's sword, and with dry eyes
-saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret, that she was not the
-mother of sons to fight also.
-
-“Would thou wert a man, Felipe,” she exclaimed again and again in tones
-the child never forgot. “Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also
-to fight these foreigners!”
-
-Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than
-the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came
-trading to post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being
-forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be
-believed. In the outset she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in
-the contest.
-
-“What!” she cried, “shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten
-by these traders? It is impossible!”
-
-When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight
-the Mexican forces made, she said icily, “He would have chosen to die
-rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of
-the enemy.” And she was almost frightened at herself to see how this
-thought, as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had
-believed she could not live if her husband were to be taken away from
-her; but she found herself often glad that he was dead,--glad that he
-was spared the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened;
-and even the yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured
-him among the saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether
-indignation did not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things
-were going in the land for whose sake he had died.
-
-Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made
-Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew,
-who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental
-girl, who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed
-with the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now,
-in the low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling,
-placid-faced, who manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike,
-to bring it about that a handful of Indians might once more confess
-their sins to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.
-
-
-
-
-III
-
-JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's
-family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona.
-Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the
-Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present.
-For one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of
-the Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that
-flashed with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the
-shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry,
-all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The
-Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never could love her; and
-yet she had stood in the place of mother to the girl ever since her
-childhood, and never once during the whole sixteen years of her life had
-shown her any unkindness in act. She had promised to be a mother to her;
-and with all the inalienable stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the
-letter of her promise. More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was
-not the Senora's fault.
-
-The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's
-acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know--and no one
-ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno--who Ramona's parents
-were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name not
-being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended
-and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and
-women here and there in the country could have told the strange story
-of Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much
-had happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she
-was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of
-the generation just going out were not the business of the young people
-coming in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what
-was the use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to
-be forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer
-evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all
-young men and maidens thrilled who heard it.
-
-It was an elder sister of the Senora's,--a sister old enough to be wooed
-and won while the Senora was yet at play,--who had been promised in
-marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a beautiful
-woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her standing in
-the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like a man
-bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for
-Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest
-accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus
-she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only
-after his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise
-to become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey,
-and Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line
-of ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs,
-carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came
-in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; and
-Angus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully
-well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best
-houses, wherever his ships went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.
-
-The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour
-her lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to
-each other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north.
-It was remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the
-Senorita, that she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face
-away, long before her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the
-“San Jose” said that Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward,
-till nightfall shut from his sight even the horizon line at which the
-Monterey ship had long before disappeared from view.
-
-This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor
-was pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he
-would bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her,
-treasures of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through
-the long weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the
-waves, and letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins,
-velvets, laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When
-he could not longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would
-pace the deck, swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those
-of one flying in fear; at such times the men heard him muttering and
-whispering to himself, “Ramona! Ramona!” Mad with love from the first
-to the last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if he
-had ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reason
-would have fled forever at that moment, and he would have killed either
-her or himself, as men thus mad have been known to do. But that hour
-never came. When, eight months later, the “San Jose” sailed into the
-Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, the
-second man he met, no friend of his, looking him maliciously in
-the face, said. “So, ho! You're just too late for the wedding! Your
-sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to a
-fine young officer of the Monterey Presidio!”
-
-Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the
-ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house,
-and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the
-hands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran
-bareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped
-by the guard, who knew him.
-
-“Is it true?” gasped Angus.
-
-“Yes, Senor,” replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook
-under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he
-would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into
-a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street,
-singing and laughing.
-
-The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was
-seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and
-lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was
-Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.
-
-“See what the Senorita escaped!” said the thoughtless. “She was quite
-right not to have married such a drunken wretch.”
-
-In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he
-possessed,--ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds squandered
-in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride. He did not
-seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it, and soon
-returned with her husband to Monterey.
-
-Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los
-Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission,
-and was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more
-surprising news that he had married a squaw,--a squaw with several
-Indian children,--had been legally married by the priest in the San
-Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless Ramona
-Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after her
-marriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How he
-had gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stood
-before her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing
-himself up to the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her
-sternly, with eyes blue like steel, he said: “Senora Ortegna, you once
-did me a great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has
-denied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and the
-Lord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at your
-hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as a
-child of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?”
-
-The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord
-had indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her
-childlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of them.
-Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the child. He
-placed it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed.
-
-“I do not know if I will be permitted,” she said falteringly; “my
-husband--”
-
-“Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him,” replied Angus.
-
-The Senora's face brightened. “If that be so, I hope it can be as you
-wish,” she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking
-down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, “But the child's mother?”
-
-Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle
-and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the
-full how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of
-his hand, which spoke volumes, he said: “That is nothing. She has other
-children, of her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. I
-wish her to be yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church.”
-
-With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in
-her arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the
-infant. At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. “Oh,
-no! not to the Church! I will love it as my own,” she said.
-
-Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in
-their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful,
-so dear. “I should hardly have known you, Senora!” burst from him
-involuntarily.
-
-She smiled piteously, with no resentment. “That is not strange. I hardly
-know myself,” she whispered. “Life has dealt very hardly with me.
-I should not have known you either--Angus.” She pronounced his name
-hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables,
-so long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in his
-hands, and sobbed out: “O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here,
-not wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you
-sure you wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not.”
-
-“Never, so long as I live, Angus,” replied Senora Ortegna. “Already I
-feel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in
-her presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?”
-
-Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. “Before I had thought
-of bringing her to you,” he stammered, “at first I had only the thought
-of giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by”--the words
-refused to leave his lips--“the name--Can you not guess, Senora, what
-name she bears?”
-
-The Senora knew. “My own?” she said.
-
-Angus bowed his head. “The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke
-with love,” he said, reassured, “was the name my daughter should bear.”
-
-“It is well,” replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between
-them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a
-simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms
-with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the
-hands which lovingly held his sleeping child.
-
-“God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,” he cried,
-and was gone.
-
-In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to
-say in a low tone, “There is no need to be alarmed if the child does not
-wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her.
-It will not harm her.”
-
-One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two
-lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again,
-forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been
-bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart
-of the man it was the old passionate adoring love reawakening;
-a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with lineaments
-unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no buried love to
-come to such resurrection in her heart, for she had never loved Angus
-Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, heartbroken, she woke at that
-moment to the realization of what manner of love it had been which she
-had thrown away in her youth; her whole being yearned for it now, and
-Angus was avenged.
-
-When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into
-his wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his
-eyes,--his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay,
-smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant.
-
-“What in the devil's name,” he began; then recollecting, he muttered:
-“Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your
-first child!” and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by,
-giving the cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed.
-
-The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since
-passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But
-it was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from
-that day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments
-where there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight
-of her baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency.
-
-Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed
-from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's
-character was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful
-dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country.
-But from the wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of
-complaint. She was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But
-now she saw a reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was
-plain to her that she had not many years to live; and what then would
-become of the child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only
-too certain what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the
-lonely woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly
-endeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own death had
-not occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust.
-
-Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian
-messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He
-brought her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day
-before his death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a
-quarter of a century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought
-for his bride. These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the
-lowest depths of his degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him
-from parting with them. The letter contained only these words: “I send
-you all I have to leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself this
-year. I wished to kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying.
-Farewell.”
-
-After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not
-till she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had
-put the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a
-solemn promise that at her own death she would adopt the little
-Ramona. This promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father
-Salvierderra's influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any
-dealings with such alien and mongrel blood, “If the child were pure
-Indian, I would like it better,” she said. “I like not these crosses. It
-is the worst, and not the best of each, that remains.”
-
-But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew
-that her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's
-future was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life
-the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly
-and defiantly infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations
-in his wife's presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her
-helpless invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga
-blood to endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke
-to her husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to
-see her die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and
-damasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling
-into the hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would
-stand in her place as soon as the funeral services had been said over
-her dead body.
-
-Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno
-conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to
-be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas
-lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never
-ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their
-lonely wretchedness.
-
-One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell
-to her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little
-four-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next
-morning set sail for home.
-
-When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all
-kinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off,
-post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding
-their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of
-instructions to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in
-trust for Ramona; also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading
-which he sank into a fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and
-gave his infamous associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost
-their comrade. But he soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and
-settled back into his old gait on the same old high-road to the devil.
-Father Salvierderra could alarm him, but not save him.
-
-And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never
-told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It
-was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them
-nothing but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last.
-
-How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in
-her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was
-ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a
-little child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, “Senora, why
-did my mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?”
-
-Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: “Your mother had nothing
-whatever to do with it. It was your father.”
-
-“Was my mother dead?” continued the child.
-
-Too late the Senora saw her mistake. “I do not know,” she replied; which
-was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. “I never saw your
-mother.”
-
-“Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?” persisted Ramona.
-
-“No, never,” answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the
-innocent child's unconscious touch.
-
-Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her
-eyes tearful. At last she said, “I wish I knew if my mother was dead.”
-
-“Why?” asked the Senora.
-
-“Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to
-stay with her.”
-
-The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience.
-Taking the child in her arms, she said, “Who has been talking to you of
-these things, Ramona?”
-
-“Juan Can,” she replied.
-
-“What did he say?” asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded
-no good to Juan Canito.
-
-“It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,”
- answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various
-reminiscences on the subject. “Twice I heard him. He said that my mother
-was no good, and that my father was bad too.” And the tears rolled down
-the child's cheeks.
-
-The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness,
-now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said,
-with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, “Ramona must
-not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it.
-He never saw either your father or your mother, and so he could know
-nothing about them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man.
-He was my friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was the
-reason he gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of
-her own. And I think your mother had a good many.”
-
-“Oh!” said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the
-situation,--that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to the
-Senora Ortegna. “Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very
-much?”
-
-“Yes, very much indeed,” said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. “She
-had grieved many years because she had no child.”
-
-Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart,
-grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts
-into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the
-Senora by saying in a half-whisper, “Why did not my father bring me to
-you first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?”
-
-The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said:
-“Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I
-was only a child, then.”
-
-“Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,” continued
-Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without
-noticing the Senora's reply. “A son is more than a daughter; but most
-people have both,” eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this
-would bring.
-
-But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very
-mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability
-to love Ramona had swept through her mind. “Ramona,” she said firmly,
-“while you are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things.
-When you are a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about your
-father and your mother. It is very little. Your father died when you
-were only two years old. All that you have to do is to be a good child,
-and say your prayers, and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be
-pleased with you. And he will not be pleased if you ask troublesome
-questions. Don't ever speak to me again about this. When the proper time
-comes I will tell you myself.”
-
-This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again
-asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had
-been a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been
-always pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her
-year by year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to
-tell her anything more about her father and mother. There were few
-mornings on which the girl did not think, “Perhaps it may be to-day
-that she will tell me.” But she would not ask. Every word of that
-conversation was as vivid in her mind as it had been the day it
-occurred; and it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that during
-every day of the whole nine years had deepened in her heart the
-conviction which had prompted the child's question, “Did he know that
-you did not want any daughter?”
-
-A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at
-least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never
-put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem
-sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity,
-with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as
-resignation is above rebellious repining.
-
-No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual
-conduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face
-was sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human
-being without a cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her
-industry was tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent
-of the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her
-at much personal sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno
-estate had ever seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters,
-who spoke of her habitually as the “blessed child.” They had taught her
-all the dainty arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions
-of painting and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out of
-books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and romance.
-For serious study or for deep thought she had no vocation. She was a
-simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful nature, like a clear brook
-rippling along in the sun,--a nature as unlike as possible to the
-Senora's, with its mysterious depths and stormy, hidden currents.
-
-Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender,
-sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only
-express by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty
-possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on
-Senora Moreno, though its source she never suspected; and it won no new
-recognition from her for Ramona, no increase of love.
-
-But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all
-this graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and
-more he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody
-knew so well as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew
-what it meant, how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe
-had learned while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother
-was to appear to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated
-him. And long before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of
-keeping to himself most of the things he thought and felt about his
-little playmate sister,--a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly
-ripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years.
-
-
-
-
-IV
-
-IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before
-Father Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the
-year that she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey
-that he could make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his
-body that had failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have
-been nothing to him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and
-happy thoughts, stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories
-and still sadder anticipations,--the downfall of the Missions, the loss
-of their vast estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land.
-The final decision of the United States Government in regard to the
-Mission-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed
-that ultimate restoration of these great estates to the Church was
-inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept when at home at the
-Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement
-in the church, and praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had
-often had visions vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the
-Mission establishments should be reinstated in all their old splendor
-and prosperity, and their Indian converts again numbered by tens of
-thousands.
-
-Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate
-these visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they
-must come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year
-he journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission,
-the buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold,
-and settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing,
-driven back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble
-work of his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his
-faith died out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself,
-also, were giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as
-Francis of Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in
-a purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for
-any sort of secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable
-clothes while there were others suffering for want of them--and
-there were always such--seemed to him a sin for which one might not
-undeservedly be smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the
-Brothers again and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away
-to the first beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have
-been left bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had
-not been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could
-not give them all away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often
-sublime sight, a man who has survived, not only his own time, but
-the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the
-bitterness of exile, the anguish of friendlessness at their utmost,
-are in it; and yet it is so much greater than they, that even they seem
-small part of it.
-
-It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near
-the home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those
-midsummer days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The
-almonds had bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the
-peaches and pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy
-tint of green, so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray.
-The willows were vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and
-glossy like laurel. The billowy hills on either side the valley were
-covered with verdure and bloom,--myriads of low blossoming plants, so
-close to the earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each other,
-and on the green of the grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each
-other and blend into a changeful color.
-
-The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern
-California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they
-are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in
-the sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck.
-
-Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture.
-Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself
-permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed
-them with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,--all
-members of the sacred choir praising God.
-
-It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh
-drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old
-man resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down.
-The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the
-Church,--alien hands reaping its fulness, establishing new customs,
-new laws. All the way down the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen,
-at every stopping-place, new tokens of the settling up of the
-country,--farms opening, towns growing; the Americans pouring in, at
-all points, to reap the advantages of their new possessions. It was
-this which had made his journey heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in
-approaching the Senora Moreno's, as if he were coming to one of the last
-sure strongholds of the Catholic faith left in the country.
-
-When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the
-highway into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut
-through the hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was
-more than a year since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing
-fainter and fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard,
-he said to himself, “I think no one can have passed through here this
-year.”
-
-As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild
-mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New
-Testament, in the branches of which the birds of the air may rest.
-Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find
-starting-point in an inch, it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five,
-ten, twenty feet, with hundreds of fine feathery branches locking
-and interlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till it is an
-inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts into yellow bloom still
-finer, more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so infinitesimally
-small, and of so dark a green, that at a short distance they do not
-show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating in the air; at times it
-looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky behind it, as it is often
-seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The plant is a tyrant and a
-nuisance,--the terror of the farmer; it takes riotous possession of a
-whole field in a season; once in, never out; for one plant this year, a
-million the next; but it is impossible to wish that the land were freed
-from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold
-is in the pocket.
-
-Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these
-delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could
-make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one
-would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma,
-and not unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his
-journey's end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through
-the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He
-paused,--listened. It was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing
-nearer, apparently from the direction in which he was going. At
-intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again; as if by a sudden but
-brief interruption, like that made by question and answer. Then, peering
-ahead through the mustard blossoms, he saw them waving and bending, and
-heard sounds as if they were being broken. Evidently some one entering
-on the path from the opposite end had been caught in the fragrant
-thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer, though still low and sweet
-as the twilight notes of the thrush; the mustard branches waved more and
-more violently; light steps were now to be heard. Father Salvierderra
-stood still as one in a dream, his eyes straining forward into the
-golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, distinct and clear to
-his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint Francis's
-inimitable lyric, “The Canticle of the Sun:”
-
-“Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for
-our brother the Sun,--who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and
-splendor shadows forth unto us thine.”
-
-“Ramona!” exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure.
-“The blessed child!” And as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in
-a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to right and
-left with her hands, and half crept, half danced through the loop-hole
-openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood
-was not too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture. A man must
-be dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best
-enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. She had just
-enough of olive tint in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin
-without making it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy
-and black, but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those
-who came very near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were blue, for
-the heavy black eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shadowed
-them that they looked black as night. At the same instant that Father
-Salvierderra first caught sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and
-crying out joyfully, “Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path,
-and something told me you were near!” she sprang forward, and sank on
-her knees before him, bowing her head for his blessing. In silence he
-laid his hands on her brow. It would not have been easy for him to speak
-to her at that first moment. She had looked to the devout old monk, as
-she sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling on
-her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, more like an
-apparition of an angel or saint, than like the flesh-and-blood maiden
-whom he had carried in his arms when she was a babe.
-
-“We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!” she said,
-rising. “We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers have been
-sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the reason I felt so
-sure you would come. I knew the Virgin would bring you in time for mass
-in the chapel on the first morning.”
-
-The monk smiled half sadly. “Would there were more with such faith as
-yours, daughter,” he said. “Are all well on the place?”
-
-“Yes, Father, all well,” she answered. “Felipe has been ill with a
-fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for--for your
-coming.”
-
-Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,--“fretting for the
-sheep-shearing,” but recollected herself in time.
-
-“And the Senora?” said the Father.
-
-“She is well,” answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of
-tone,--so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute observer
-would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she spoke of
-the Senora Moreno. “And you,--are you well yourself, Father?” she asked
-affectionately, noting with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old
-man walked, and that he carried what she had never before seen in his
-hand,--a stout staff to steady his steps. “You must be very tired with
-the long journey on foot.”
-
-“Ay, Ramona, I am tired,” he replied. “Old age is conquering me. It will
-not be many times more that I shall see this place.”
-
-“Oh, do not say that, Father,” cried Ramona; “you can ride, when it
-tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, that
-she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not right for
-you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we have hundreds of
-horses. It is nothing, one horse,” she added, seeing the Father slowly
-shake his head.
-
-“No;” he said, “it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the hands
-of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. We
-must deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, Father
-Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego to Monterey,
-and all the while a running ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men
-would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sinful fashion that
-is coming in, for monks to take their ease doing God's work. I can no
-longer walk swiftly, but I must walk all the more diligently.”
-
-While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona
-slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and
-holding them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they
-came out from the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, “There is Felipe, in
-the willows. I told him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me.
-Now he will see I was right.”
-
-Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and
-the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been
-cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees,
-as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind
-blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in
-gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate
-welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times
-since she became a woman, “How beautiful Felipe is! No wonder the Senora
-loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like that she would have
-liked me better.” Never was a little child more unconscious of her own
-beauty than Ramona still was. All the admiration which was expressed
-to her in word and look she took for simple kindness and good-will.
-Her face, as she herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She
-compared her straight, massive black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and
-delicately pencilled, and found her own ugly. The expression of gentle
-repose which her countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of
-stupidity. “Felipe looks so bright!” she thought, as she noted his
-mobile changing face, never for two successive seconds the same. “There
-is nobody like Felipe.” And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as
-they so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked steadily back
-into their velvet depths with an abstracted sort of intensity which
-profoundly puzzled Felipe. It was this look, more than any other one
-thing, which had for two years held Felipe's tongue in leash, as it
-were, and made it impossible for him to say to Ramona any of the loving
-things of which his heart had been full ever since he could remember.
-The boy had spoken them unhesitatingly, unconsciously; but the man found
-himself suddenly afraid. “What is it she thinks when she looks into my
-eyes so?” he wondered. If he had known that the thing she was usually
-thinking was simply, “How much handsomer brown eyes are than blue!
-I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!” he would have perceived,
-perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known it, that a
-girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at him as a
-lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only enough to
-perplex and deter him.
-
-As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate
-of the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking
-down at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an
-eager leap forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals
-of distress to her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty.
-Margarita was, of all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they
-were nearly of the same age, it had been Margarita who first had charge
-of Ramona; the nurse and her charge had played together, grown up
-together, become women together, and were now, although Margarita never
-presumed on the relation, or forgot to address Ramona as Senorita, more
-like friends than like mistress and maid.
-
-“Pardon me, Father,” said Ramona. “I see that Margarita there is in
-trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be with
-you again in a few moments.” And kissing his hand, she flew rather than
-ran across the field to the foot of the garden.
-
-Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and
-buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay
-at her feet.
-
-“What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?” cried Ramona, in the
-affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand
-from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled
-linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her
-hands.
-
-Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry
-of dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and
-she gasped out, “Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never be
-mended, and it will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. When I saw
-the Father coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die.
-The Senora will never forgive me.”
-
-It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth
-which the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front
-of beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the
-threads and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the
-cloth which had always been on the altar, when mass was said, since
-Margarita's and Ramona's earliest recollections,--there it lay, torn,
-stained, as if it had been dragged through muddy brambles. In silence,
-aghast, Ramona opened it out and held it up. “How did it happen,
-Margarita?” she whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house.
-
-“Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!” sobbed the girl. “That is the
-worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it
-had happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but she
-never will. I would rather die than tell her;” and she shook from head
-to foot.
-
-“Stop crying, Margarita!” said Ramona, firmly, “and tell me all about
-it. It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it.”
-
-“Oh, the saints bless you!” cried Margarita, looking up for the first
-time. “Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will mend
-that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!”
-
-Ramona laughed in spite of herself. “You'll serve me better by keeping
-on your feet,” she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through
-her tears. They were both young.
-
-“Oh, but Senorita,” Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her
-tears flowing afresh, “there is not time! It must be washed and ironed
-to-night, for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help at the
-supper. Anita and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, and Maria has gone
-away for a week. The Senora said if the Father came to-night I must help
-mother, and must wait on table. It cannot be done. I was just going
-to iron it now, and I found it--so--It was in the artichoke-patch, and
-Capitan, the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp pricks of the
-old last year's seeds.”
-
-“In the artichoke-patch!” ejaculated Ramona. “How under heavens did it
-get there?”
-
-“Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would
-forgive me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to dry on
-the fence there; and if I had only washed it when she first told me, two
-days ago, all would have been well. But I forgot it till this afternoon,
-and there was no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how the sun
-lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a strong cloth over the fence,
-so that the wood should not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more
-than half an hour, just while I said a few words to Luigo, and there
-was no wind; and I believe the saints must have fetched it down to the
-ground to punish me for my disobedience.”
-
-Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places,
-“It is not so bad as it looks,” she said; “if it were not for the hurry,
-there would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the best I
-can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after the Father
-is gone, I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as good as new.
-I think I can mend it and wash it before dark,” and she glanced at the
-sun. “Oh, yes, there are good three hours of daylight yet. I can do it.
-You put the irons on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon
-as it is partly dried. You will see it will not show that anything has
-happened to it.”
-
-“Will the Senora know?” asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but
-still in mortal terror.
-
-Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. “You would not
-be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?” she said gravely.
-
-“O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?” pleaded
-the girl.
-
-“I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended,” said Ramona;
-but she did not smile.
-
-“Ah, Senorita,” said Margarita, deprecatingly, “you do not know what it
-is to have the Senora displeased with one.”
-
-“Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self,” retorted
-Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the linen rolled up
-under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no one on the way.
-The Senora had welcomed Father Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda
-steps, and had immediately closeted herself with him. She had much to
-say to him,--much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much
-which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in
-the country generally.
-
-Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything
-were ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the
-shearers arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming
-in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed
-his messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians
-the urgent need of their losing no time on the road.
-
-It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the
-messenger to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the
-Father's movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even
-she perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much
-longer, or, as Juan Canito said, “forever.” The Father might have fallen
-ill; and if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they
-heard of it, so scanty were the means of communication between the
-remote places on his route of visitation. The messenger had therefore
-been sent to summon the Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned
-herself to the inevitable; piously praying, however, morning and night,
-and at odd moments in the day, that the Father might arrive before the
-Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-walk, leaning on
-the arm of her Felipe, on the afternoon of the very day which was the
-earliest possible day for the Indians to arrive, it was not strange that
-she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her long-loved friend
-and confessor, a triumphant exultation that the saints had heard her
-prayers.
-
-In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the
-house was a signal for unwonted activities there,--even the coming of
-Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup had force-meat
-balls in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to her the last extreme
-of indifference to good things of the flesh. “But if he will not eat,
-he can see,” she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was
-enlisted in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder
-afforded, She grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the
-cabbages to go into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full
-of rice, because Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two.
-
-“Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always
-two onions?” she exclaimed. “It is the dish he most favors of all; and
-it is a pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good beef
-he should take now.”
-
-The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the
-kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going
-back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each
-child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of
-the meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a
-glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers
-and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita,
-between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping
-in the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her
-army of infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught,
-however, but that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted
-candle in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis
-of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace
-might be made whole like new. Several times before the afternoon had
-waned she snatched a moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet
-and pray her foolish little prayer over again. We think we are quite
-sure that it is a foolish little prayer, when people pray to have torn
-lace made whole. But it would be hard to show the odds between asking
-that, and asking that it may rain, or that the sick may get well. As the
-grand old Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they pray to God,
-is, that two and two may not make four. All the same he is to be pitied
-who prays not. It was only the thought of that candle at Saint Francis's
-feet, which enabled Margarita to struggle through this anxious and
-unhappy afternoon and evening.
-
-At last supper was ready,--a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in
-the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls
-and red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the
-boiled rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans)
-so dear to all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed
-pears, or preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of
-various sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an
-aroma of tea such as had never been bought or sold in all California,
-the Senora's one extravagance and passion.
-
-“Where is Ramona?” asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she
-entered the dining-room, “Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are
-waiting for her.”
-
-Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What
-would happen now! “O Saint Francis,” she inwardly prayed, “help us this
-once!”
-
-“Stay,” said Felipe. “Do not call Senorita Ramona.” Then, turning to his
-mother, “Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to
-perform for to-morrow,” he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother,
-adding, “we will not wait for her.”
-
-Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a
-mechanical way, and began, “But--” Felipe, seeing that questions were to
-follow, interrupted her: “I have just spoken with her. It is impossible
-for her to come;” and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged
-him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied
-curiosity as best she could.
-
-Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude,
-which he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood;
-for Ramona had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing
-him under her window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: “Dear
-Felipe, do you think you can save me from having to come to supper? A
-dreadful accident has happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it
-and wash it, and there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call
-me; I shall be down at the brook, and they will not find me, and your
-mother will be displeased.”
-
-This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far
-as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious
-than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was
-skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came
-streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona,
-darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the
-grass, had dipped the linen into the water.
-
-Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks
-scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair
-fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in
-her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see
-the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get
-them out without fraying the lace.
-
-Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her
-whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over
-the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously
-scanning it, then plunging it in again.
-
-The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was
-aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty.
-A sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black
-against the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the
-band of Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the
-sheep sheds and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not
-see. He had been standing for some minutes concealed behind a large
-willow-tree a few rods from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was
-Alessandro, son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking
-slowly along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a
-mirror held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the
-glittering water where Ramona knelt. In the same second he saw Ramona.
-
-He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed;
-walked abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his
-disappearance. Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter
-of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on
-the beautiful vision,--for so it seemed to him.
-
-As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke
-aloud; “Christ! What shall I do!”
-
-
-
-
-V
-
-THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora
-Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the
-south and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky,
-this eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on
-watch for it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray
-reached the window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing
-there with bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in
-all devout Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly
-abandoned. At the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family
-arose, and began singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the
-duty of each person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up
-in bed, and join in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would
-be singing, and the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like
-the music of the birds in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually
-invocations to the Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies
-were sweet and simple.
-
-On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father
-Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about
-since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by
-the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He
-recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were
-at the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the
-Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could
-see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern
-horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like
-amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not
-a sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without
-difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space.
-Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe
-that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace,
-and the earth was standing still,--a belief just as grand, just as
-thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun
-long before they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent
-astronomer, with the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end,
-could have had more delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than
-did this simple-minded, unlearned man.
-
-His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to
-the windows of the house, yet dark and still. “Which window is hers?
-Will she open it when the song begins?” he thought. “Is it on this side
-of the house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. Saw the saints
-ever so beautiful a creature!”
-
-At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to
-his feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south
-window, and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks
-streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,--
-
-     “O beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven.”
-
-Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined
-in,--the Senora, from her room at the west end of the veranda, beyond
-the flowers; Felipe, from the adjoining room; Ramona, from hers, the
-next; and Margarita and other of the maids already astir in the wings of
-the house. As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries waked, and the
-finches and the linnets in the veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were
-laid on bundles of tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build
-their nests. The roof was alive with them,--scores and scores, nay
-hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the
-tuning of myriads of violins.
-
-     “Singers at dawn
-     From the heavens above
-     People all regions;
-     Gladly we too sing,”
-
-continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's
-voices joined in,--Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up
-from the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all.
-
-     “Come, O sinners,
-     Come, and we will sing
-     Tender hymns
-     To our refuge,”
-
-was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn.
-
-Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been
-the leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of
-its splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music.
-Some of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not
-only sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at
-any of the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments
-as at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and
-spared no pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who
-showed any special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the
-breaking up of the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band
-of his Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep
-up the old religious services. The music in the little chapel of the
-Temecula Indians was a surprise to all who heard it.
-
-Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and
-knew all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the
-
-     “Beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven,”
-
-was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse
-rising, he could not forbear striking in.
-
-At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in
-surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking
-in all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang
-no more.
-
-“What could it have been? Did I dream it?” thought Ramona, drew in her
-head, and began to sing again.
-
-With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They
-seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great
-wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had
-a good tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but
-this--this was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of
-it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain.
-When the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra
-would strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this
-morning; there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to
-be at work: windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all
-directions, ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun
-rose and let a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place.
-
-Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt
-thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy
-altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good
-as new.
-
-The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming
-towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief
-bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her
-face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the
-veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already
-entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from
-his vantage-post of observation at the willows.
-
-When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver
-urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding
-these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky
-canon, several miles away.
-
-As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly
-up the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing
-why, thought, “That must be the Indian who sang.” As she turned to the
-right and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and
-knelt on the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she
-came out. As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle,
-place the ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in
-front of the altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a
-look as of secret intelligence.
-
-“Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife,” thought Alessandro, and
-a strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; hardly knew what it
-meant. He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much about women. He
-was a distant, cold boy, his own people of the Temecula village said.
-It had come, they believed, of learning to read, which was always bad.
-Chief Pablo had not done his son any good by trying to make him like
-white men. If the Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission
-have gone on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers,
-as his father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand
-man at the Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid the
-wages; handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But that was
-“in the time of the king;” it was very different now. The Americans
-would not let an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle.
-A man need not read and write, to do that.
-
-Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching
-Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and
-far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides.
-Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: “Pablo, your
-people will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless you keep them
-together. Knit firm bonds between them; band them into pueblos; make
-them work; and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is your only
-chance.”
-
-Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He
-had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in
-his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his
-little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever
-there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from
-house to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the
-peace. At one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian
-tribes farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would
-be a general Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men,
-women, and children driving their flocks and herds with them, to
-Los Angeles, and camped there for several days, that they might be
-identified with the whites in case hostilities became serious.
-
-But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every
-day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased,
-he saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his
-anxieties deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend
-of Father Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned
-to Mexico in disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was
-reported to be lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo,
-that he and his people should always live in the valley undisturbed,
-was all the title Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the
-promise was given, it was all that was necessary. The lines marking off
-the Indians' lands were surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No
-Mexican proprietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or village,
-thus placed on his lands.
-
-But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such
-pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held as of no
-value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent enough
-to see that if this were so, he and his people were ruined. All these
-perplexities and fears he confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the
-father and son spent together, walking back and forth in the village, or
-sitting in front of their little adobe house, discussing what could be
-done. There was always the same ending to the discussion,--a long sigh,
-and, “We must wait, we can do nothing.”
-
-No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young
-men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old
-before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they
-knew nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was
-no drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the
-hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy
-work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro
-and his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why
-Alessandro had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this,
-and also the fact that even the little education he had received was
-sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously
-aware, between him and the maidens of the village. If a quick, warm
-fancy for any one of them ever stirred in his veins, he found himself
-soon, he knew not how, cured of it. For a dance, or a game, or a
-friendly chat, for the trips into the mountains after acorns, or to the
-marshes for grasses and reeds, he was their good comrade, and they were
-his; but never had the desire to take one of them for his wife, entered
-into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the future, for him, was filled
-full by thoughts which left no room for love's dreaming; one purpose and
-one fear filled it,--the purpose to be his father's worthy successor,
-for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the fear, that exile and ruin
-were in store for them all.
-
-It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in
-advance of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona
-kneeling at the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed
-to Alessandro that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The
-purposes and the fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague
-wonder, pain, joy, he knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that
-he was bewildered. If he had been what the world calls a civilized man,
-he would have known instantly and would have been capable of weighing,
-analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not
-a civilized man; he had to bring to bear on his present situation only
-simple, primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been
-a maiden of his own people or race, he would have drawn near to her as
-quickly as iron to the magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even
-think of her in such a way, she would have been, to his view, as far
-removed from him as was the morning star beneath whose radiance he had
-that morning watched, hoping for sight of her at her window. He did not,
-however, go so far as to thus think of her. Even that would have
-been impossible. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel door,
-mechanically repeating the prayers with the rest, waiting for her to
-reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was Senor Felipe's wife; all
-the same he wished to kneel there till she came out, that he might see
-her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, had narrowed now down
-to that,--just one more sight of her. Ever so civilized, he could hardly
-have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed to him endlessly long.
-Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in the closing of the
-final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear deep-toned voice
-pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great sea-wave, sweeping
-along.
-
-Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as
-much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees,
-she whispered to Felipe: “Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians
-it is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it.”
-
-“Oh, that is Alessandro,” replied Felipe, “old Pablo's son. He is a
-splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?”
-
-“I was not here,” replied Ramona; “you forget.”
-
-“Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten,” said Felipe. “Well, he
-was here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though he was only
-twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They saved nearly all their
-money to carry home, and I never knew them do such a thing before.
-Father Salvierderra was here, which might have had something to do with
-it; but I think it was quite as much Alessandro. He plays the violin
-beautifully. I hope he has brought it along. He plays the old San Luis
-Rey music. His father was band-master there.”
-
-Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. “Does your mother like it, to have
-him play?” she asked.
-
-Felipe nodded. “We'll have him up on the veranda tonight,” he said.
-
-While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied,
-the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work.
-Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was
-sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: “What are you gaping at
-there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After
-waiting till near midsummer for this shearing, we'll make as quick work
-of it as we can. Have you got your best shearers here?”
-
-“Ay, that I have,” answered Alessandro; “not a man of them but can shear
-his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in all San Diego
-County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either; you'll see
-scarce a scratch on their sides.”
-
-“Humph.” retorted Juan Can. “'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws
-blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and
-never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed
-for good shearers.”
-
-Juan's invidious emphasis on the word “Mexicans” did not escape
-Alessandro. “And we Indians also,” he answered, good-naturedly,
-betraying no annoyance; “but as for these Americans, I saw one at work
-the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, and upon my
-faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing.
-The poor beasts limped off with the blood running.”
-
-Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to
-this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority
-of Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with
-another “Humph!” he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the
-sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still
-further.
-
-At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The
-shearing shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,--a long, narrow
-structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and
-pillars; no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart
-as was safe, for the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks
-loosely laid from beam to beam. On three sides of this were the
-sheep-pens filled with sheep and lambs.
-
-A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be
-cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed
-only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians
-had already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had
-been built, but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their
-blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored
-wings of the windmill blew furiously round and round, pumping out into
-the tank below a stream of water so swift and strong, that as the men
-crowded around, wetting and sharpening their knives, they got well
-spattered, and had much merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into
-the spray.
-
-A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from
-the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the
-fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the
-foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. “We'll fill more
-than those before night, Senor Felipe,” he said. He was in his element,
-Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for the somewhat
-monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held no better feast for
-his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied,
-stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn away to the mills.
-“Now, there is something substantial,” he thought; “no chance of wool
-going amiss in market!”
-
-If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next
-six months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and
-spent the next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and
-redoubling his exertions with the sheep.
-
-On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like
-half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these,
-to the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and
-pack them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below.
-Luigo, with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with
-five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty
-shearers, running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into
-the shed, in a twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees,
-helpless, immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The
-sheep-shearing had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the
-bleating, baa-ing, opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears,
-flying of fleeces through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping
-them down in the bales; not a second's intermission, except the hour of
-rest at noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight thousand
-of the Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As
-soon as a sheep was shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his
-hand to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his five-cent piece,
-dropped it in his pocket, ran to the pen, dragged out another sheep, and
-in less than five minutes was back again with a second fleece. The shorn
-sheep, released, bounded off into another pen, where, light in the head
-no doubt from being three to five pounds lighter on their legs, they
-trotted round bewilderedly for a moment, then flung up their heels and
-capered for joy.
-
-It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet
-filled the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off
-the men's faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found
-out very soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength
-since the fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for
-the recollection of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and
-yielded his place to the old man. But he was resolved not to give up,
-and he worked on, though his face was purple and his head throbbing.
-After the bag of fleeces is half full, the packer stands in it, jumping
-with his full weight on the wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to
-compress them as much as possible. When Felipe began to do this, he
-found that he had indeed overrated his strength. As the first cloud of
-the sickening dust came up, enveloping his head, choking his breath,
-he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, “Juan, I am ill,” sank
-helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan Canito's scream of
-dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw instantly what had
-happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the bag, Juan
-in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his side to lift him.
-One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until they were all
-standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one proposing one
-thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence of mind to run to
-the house for help. The Senora was away from home. She had gone with
-Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's journey off.
-But Ramona was there. Snatching all she could think of in way of
-restoratives, she came flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant
-of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticulating, suggesting,
-wringing their hands,--as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad matters
-worse.
-
-Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. “Where is
-he?” she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's
-arms, just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned, “Oh, how will he
-ever be lifted out!”
-
-“I will lift him, Senora,” cried Alessandro, coming to the front, “I am
-very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down.” And swinging
-himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and returned,
-bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the roof again,
-he knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them at the middle
-around his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold him
-firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was hurriedly doing this,
-and Ramona did not at first understand his plan. But when she saw
-the Indians move a little back from the edge of the roof, holding the
-blankets firm grasped, while Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow
-cross-beams from which the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She
-held her breath. Felipe was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier,
-and many inches taller. Still, could any man carry such a burden safely
-on that narrow beam! Ramona looked away, and shut her eyes, through
-the silence which followed. It was only a few moments; but it seemed an
-eternity before a glad murmur of voices told her that it was done, and
-looking up, she saw Felipe lying on the roof, unconscious, his face
-white, his eyes shut. At this sight, all the servants broke out afresh,
-weeping and wailing, “He is dead! He is dead!”
-
-Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too,
-believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora.
-
-“He is not dead,” cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under
-Felipe's shirt. “He is not dead. It is only a faint.”
-
-At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously
-at the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it
-were an easy indoor staircase. “If I could only get up there!” she said,
-looking from one to another. “I think I can;” and she put one foot on
-the lower round.
-
-“Holy Virgin!” cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. “Senorita! Senorita!
-do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will break your
-neck. He is fast coming to his senses.”
-
-Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of
-the scene, his heart heard the word, “Senorita.” Ramona was not the
-wife of Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he had
-addressed her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. Coming to the
-front of the group he said, bending forward, “Senorita!” There must
-have been something in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word
-could not have done it. “Senorita,” said Alessandro, “it will be nothing
-to bring Senor Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more
-than one of the lambs yonder. I will bring him down as soon as he is
-recovered. He is better here till then. He will very soon be himself
-again. It was only the heat.” Seeing that the expression of anxious
-distress did not grow less on Ramona's face, he continued, in a tone
-still more earnest, “Will not the Senorita trust me to bring him safe
-down?”
-
-Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. “Yes,” she said, “I will trust
-you. You are Alessandro, are you not?”
-
-“Yes, Senorita,” he answered, greatly surprised, “I am Alessandro.”
-
-
-
-
-VI
-
-A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's
-sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against
-Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the
-way things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was
-being punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a
-standstill, to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora,
-looking at the other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude
-that, since all this ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father
-Salvierderra at her side to give her comfort and counsel.
-
-It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell
-in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when
-Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor
-Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground,
-and broke his right leg,--a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's
-bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able
-to do more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless
-leg. It was a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to
-it. He lost faith in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous
-beratings and reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora
-with terror, had she known that such blasphemies were being committed
-under her roof.
-
-“As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!” cried Juan;
-“only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that
-whole box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned
-to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit
-in the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What
-are they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll
-pray no more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us.” From
-morning till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg
-ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and
-swore and grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita
-said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no
-pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute.
-For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends
-had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons
-for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up
-in the minds of all the servants towards him. His own reckless language,
-combined with Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground
-for believing that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the
-Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old
-man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he
-had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men and women,
-drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was
-going on; and when by degrees they dropped off, coming more and more
-seldom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether, it was the one
-drop that overflowed his cup of misery; and he turned his face to the
-wall, left off grumbling, and spoke only when he must.
-
-This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she
-thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the
-Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the
-needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the
-doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie
-still in bed and be thus tended. “Three months!” sighed Margarita. “If I
-be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!”
-
-The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought
-to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a
-fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and
-raving in delirium, always about the wool.
-
-“Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a
-round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!--Jesus, how this
-sun burns my head!”
-
-Several times he had called “Alessandro” so earnestly, that Father
-Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any
-chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say
-to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at
-him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however,
-“Alessandro! Alessandro!”
-
-“I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin,” sobbed out
-Ramona. “He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said
-he would have him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us.”
-
-“We might try it,” said Father Salvierderra. “Have you your violin here,
-Alessandro?”
-
-“Alas, no, Father,” replied Alessandro, “I did not bring it.”
-
-“Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then,” said Ramona.
-“He was speaking of your voice also.”
-
-“Oh, try, try.” said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. “Sing
-something low and soft.”
-
-Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking
-for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses.
-
-At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An
-expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head
-to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three
-watching him looked at each other in astonishment.
-
-“It is a miracle,” said Father Salvierderra. “He will sleep.”
-
-“It was what he wanted!” whispered Ramona.
-
-The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a
-second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying
-to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower,
-till the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower,
-slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As
-they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
-
-“Oh, go on, go on!” the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with
-anxiety. “Do not stop!”
-
-Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the
-air in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt
-something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by
-reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's
-healthy outdoor experience to enable him to understand such a
-phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regularly;
-soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing stopped; Felipe did not stir.
-
-“Can I go?” whispered Alessandro.
-
-“No, no.” replied the Senora, impatiently. “He may wake any minute.”
-
-Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and
-remained standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on
-one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,--all
-praying; the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary
-beads slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall,
-at the head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side
-a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long
-wicks smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as
-the ends fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the
-Madonna. The Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears
-streaming down her face as she mechanically told her beads.
-
-“She is his betrothed, no doubt,” thought Alessandro. “The saints will
-not let him die;” and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the
-scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he
-vaulted over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound,
-“I will not go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he
-awakes.”
-
-Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly
-about him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then
-he threw himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into
-the sky. Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at
-full length by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the
-house that danger and anguish were there.
-
-One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room.
-Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora
-had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer.
-But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a
-sitting posture, with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead,
-and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and
-heavy circles under her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and
-nights she had scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her.
-Between Felipe's illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without
-something to be done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and
-above all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down
-with grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till
-she saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her inexperience
-thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But now, at
-the very thought of what it would be to live without him, her heart
-sickened. “When he is buried, I will ask Father Salvierderra to take
-me away. I never can live here alone,” she said to herself, never for a
-moment perceiving that the word “alone” was a strange one to have come
-into her mind in the connection. The thought of the Senora did not enter
-into her imaginations of the future which so smote her with terror. In
-the Senora's presence, Ramona always felt herself alone.
-
-Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill,
-his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's
-eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more
-beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a
-lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines
-on her face in the last three days. “It will kill her if he dies,”
- he thought, “if these three days have made her look like that.” And
-Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his face down. He did not
-know whether it were an hour or a day that he had lain there, when he
-heard Father Salvierderra's voice speaking his name. He sprang up, to
-see the old monk standing in the window, tears running down his cheeks.
-“God be praised,” he said, “the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has
-broken out on his skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in
-his right mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we
-know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without you, and
-remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain in Juan Can's
-place till he is about. She will give you the same wages he had. Would
-it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? You cannot be sure of
-earning so much as that for the next three months, can you?”
-
-While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in
-Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which
-were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling
-in opposite directions; one saying “Stay!” and the other saying “Go!”
- He would not have known what any one meant, who had said to him, “It
-is danger to stay; it is safety to fly.” All the same, he felt as if he
-could do neither.
-
-“There is another shearing yet, Father,” he began, “at the Ortega's
-ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and
-they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not
-do to break the promise, Father.”
-
-Father Salvierderra's face fell. “No, my son, certainly not,” he said;
-“but could no one else take your place with the band?”
-
-Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out,
-whispered, “Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come
-and talk to him. He must not go.” And running swiftly through the hall,
-across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side
-in a moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: “We can't let
-you go, Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your
-place with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place
-till he is well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing
-again, and what would we do then? Can't you stay?”
-
-“Yes, I can stay, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, gravely. “I will stay
-so long as you need me.”
-
-“Oh, thank you, Alessandro!” Ramona cried. “You are good, to stay. The
-Senora will see that it is no loss to you;” and she flew back to the
-house.
-
-“It is not for the wages, Senorita,” Alessandro began; but Ramona
-was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of
-humiliation. “I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money
-kept me,” he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. “I would not leave
-the band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father.”
-
-“Yes, yes, son. I understand that,” replied the monk, who had known
-Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San
-Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. “That is quite right of
-you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such
-things that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and
-only the two women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way
-North again.”
-
-“Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?” asked Alessandro.
-
-“I think so,” replied Father Salvierderra. “These relapses are always
-worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after
-he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I
-doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will
-be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up,
-too, just at this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most
-rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes impiously.”
-
-“That does he!” said Alessandro. “He swears the saints gave him over to
-the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from
-this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things
-yet if he did not mend his speech of them.”
-
-Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: “It is but a sign
-of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being
-corrupted. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a
-priest come often to the village?”
-
-“Only twice a year,” replied Alessandro; “and sometimes for a funeral,
-if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the
-chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the
-people are often there praying.”
-
-“Ay, ay! Ever for money!” groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the
-latter part of the sentence. “Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it
-were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once
-in three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order.”
-
-“Oh, if you could, Father,” exclaimed Alessandro, “it would make my
-father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees
-between the words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He
-is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the
-Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as
-if they were dogs; they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think
-that can be so, Father, when we have always lived on them, and the
-owners promised them to us forever?”
-
-Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and
-Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for
-words to convey his meaning. At last he said: “Got your father any
-notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,--notice to
-appear before a court, or anything about a title to the land?”
-
-“No, Father,” replied Alessandro.
-
-“There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,” continued
-the monk; “some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians
-from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If
-you have had no such notice, you are not in danger.”
-
-“But, Father,” persisted Alessandro, “how could there be a law to take
-away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?”
-
-“Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?”
-
-“No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked
-off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries
-of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass and wood to
-measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry.
-I myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's
-house,--Senor Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He
-hired one of our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I
-wished to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose
-told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to
-me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked
-on the map, for it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and
-Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both pointed to it with their finger, and
-they said, 'All this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think
-my father need fear, do you?”
-
-“I hope not,” replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; “but since the
-way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have
-small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all
-that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands.”
-
-“That is what my father says,” replied Alessandro. “He says, 'Look at
-San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all their vast
-lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church
-and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?'
-That is what my father says.”
-
-“True, true!” said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room
-where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see Father
-Salvierderra's face coming in. “We are all alike helpless in their
-hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they
-please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'” and he crossed himself
-devoutly, repeating the words twice.
-
-Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full
-of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on
-towards the shearing-shed he thought: “Then, again, how can it be God's
-will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should
-steal from another all he has. That would make God no better than a
-thief, it looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?”
-
-It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula.
-Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had
-grappled with the problem in one shape or another.
-
-At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and
-ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning,
-and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,--it
-was now near sunset,--with nothing to do, and still worse with not
-much of anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The
-economical Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and
-supposing they would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep
-killed for them the day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old
-Marda, getting her cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the
-family needed themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry
-day of it, in no wise alleviated either by the reports brought from time
-to time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under
-Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to.
-
-It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement
-of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in
-few words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by
-setting them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place
-for the remainder of the season.
-
-“Very well!” they said hotly; “captain for this year, captain for next,
-too!” It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the
-shearers!
-
-“All right,” said Alessandro; “please yourselves! It is all the same
-to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra
-wishes it.”
-
-“Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different.” “Ah, that alters
-the case!” “Alessandro is right!” came up in confused murmur from the
-appeased crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula
-men, and would never think of going against the Father's orders. But
-when they understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until
-Juan Canito's leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh
-grumblings began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro
-must be at home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,--no doing
-anything without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the
-midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as
-the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing
-except the Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had
-had a hundred engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten
-them all. Now that he was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be
-confessed he was for a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was
-a time, when, as he well knew, his father could not do without his help.
-There were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly
-whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and encourage all
-sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty
-lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That was certain.
-
-“I will manage to be at home then,” he said. “If I am not through here
-by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend
-on.”
-
-The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact,
-but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only
-old man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys.
-Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged,
-two years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was
-getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the
-first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling
-away all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his
-blanket at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for
-these few remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office
-again. And Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they
-ought all to see that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with
-the men.
-
-The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend
-of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the
-Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if
-they did not do all they could to help her in her need.
-
-The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught
-and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at
-full speed from the house.
-
-“Alessandro! Alessandro!” cried Ramona, out of breath, “I have only just
-now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you
-know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house.
-Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have
-a good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait.”
-
-Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona
-spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial
-outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too
-ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega
-sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro
-hesitated.
-
-“It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's,” he said to the men. “You'll
-be late in, if you do not start now.”
-
-“Supper will be ready in an hour,” said Ramona. “Please let them stay;
-one hour can't make any difference.”
-
-Alessandro smiled. “It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are
-off,” he said; “but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you,
-Senorita, for thinking of it.”
-
-“Oh, I did not think of it myself,” said Ramona. “It was Margarita,
-here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the
-shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed,” she
-added ruefully. “It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything
-to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?”
-
-“Yes, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, “but that is not long; one can do
-without food very well for one day. I often do.”
-
-“Often.” exclaimed Ramona; “but why should you do that?” Then suddenly
-bethinking herself, she said in her heart, “Oh, what a thoughtless
-question! Can it be they are so poor as that?” And to save Alessandro
-from replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, “Come, come,
-Margarita, we must go and help at the supper.”
-
-“Will the Senorita let me help, too,” asked Alessandro, wondering at his
-own boldness,--“if there is anything I can do?”
-
-“Oh, no,” she cried, “there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help
-carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with
-Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some
-of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are
-ready.”
-
-The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting,
-and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and
-the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons,
-frying, pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently
-old Marda meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in
-his bed, also heard and smelled what was going on. “May the fiends get
-me,” he growled, “if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast
-for those beasts of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers
-stewing, and potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for
-beggars that are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or
-a bowl of acorn porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they
-were well feasted at the Moreno's,--that's one comfort. I wonder if
-Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but it
-smells well! Margarita! Margarita!” he called at top of his lungs; but
-Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the kitchen;
-and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the good broth which
-the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must eat for two weeks,
-she had dismissed him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Margarita
-was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in love with the
-handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the year
-before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to her,
-evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed,
-when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade,
-through which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor
-Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion,
-had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was going
-to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe
-got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about,
-here, there, and everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall
-straight figure pacing up and down in the dusk outside.
-
-Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off
-at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, “I will call you when we
-are ready.” But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call.
-
-“Run, Margarita,” she said. “All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in
-sight. Call him to come and take the things.”
-
-So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called “Alessandro!
-Alessandro! the supper is ready.”
-
-But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there
-holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so
-roused poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave
-it into Alessandro's hands, “Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The
-gravy will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting
-on table;” and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's
-eyes,--a little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to
-making him drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at
-her feet.
-
-The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than
-an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to
-set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. “Jose,”
- he said, “whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?”
-
-“Mine,” promptly replied Jose. “Mine, by a great deal. I will run
-Antonio any day he likes.”
-
-Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was
-learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little
-diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back.
-He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there
-was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of
-the fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for
-his messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his
-horse to its utmost speed.
-
-Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, “Will you go? I will pay
-you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.”
-
-“I will go,” said Jose, elated. “You will see me back tomorrow by
-sundown.”
-
-“Not earlier?” asked Alessandro. “I thought by noon.”
-
-“Well, by noon be it, then,” said Jose. “The horse can do it.”
-
-“Have great care!” said Alessandro.
-
-“That will I,” replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch
-with his knees, set off at full gallop westward.
-
-“I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,” said Alessandro, walking
-up to Fernando. “He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the
-Ortega's the next morning.”
-
-“Back here by noon to-morrow!” exclaimed Fernando. “Not unless he kills
-his horse!”
-
-“That was what he said,” replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
-
-“Easy enough, too!” cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare.
-“I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for
-her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?”
-
-“Is your horse really faster than Jose's?” said Alessandro. “Then I wish
-I had sent you. I'll send you next time.”
-
-
-
-
-VII
-
-IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into
-his place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough
-places became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old
-Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the
-news of his staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for
-since his accident Juan had not been without fears that he might lose
-his place altogether; there was a Mexican he knew, who had long
-been scheming to get the situation, and had once openly boasted at
-a fandango, where he was dancing with Anita, that as soon as that
-superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was out of the way, he meant to
-be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself. To have seen this man in
-authority on the place, would have driven Juan out of his mind.
-
-But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,--and of course the Senora
-would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a
-position on the estate,--it was exactly as Juan would have wished; and
-he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in
-his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and
-explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro
-understood far better than he did.
-
-Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis
-Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly
-as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither
-did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position
-of his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was
-an Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of
-Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's
-mind to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan
-had been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully
-trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite
-usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he
-would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents
-were different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be
-entirely on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew,
-of which Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others
-in which Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the
-things of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher
-of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but
-circumstances and opportunity would have a hold on him they could never
-get on Alessandro. Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro
-was by nature full of veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had
-been trained into being a good Catholic. But they were both singularly
-pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled young men, and destined, by
-the strange chance which had thus brought them into familiar relations,
-to become strongly attached to each other. After the day on which
-the madness of Felipe's fever had been so miraculously soothed and
-controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was never again wildly delirious.
-When he waked in the night from that first long sleep, he was, as Father
-Salvierderra had predicted, in his right mind; knew every one, and asked
-rational questions. But the over-heated and excited brain did not
-for some time wholly resume normal action. At intervals he wandered,
-especially when just arousing from sleep; and, strangely enough, it
-was always for Alessandro that he called at these times, and it seemed
-always to be music that he craved. He recollected Alessandro's having
-sung to him that first night. “I was not so crazy as you all thought,”
- he said. “I knew a great many of the things I said, but I couldn't help
-saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; and when he
-began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down and put her hand
-on my head and cooled it.”
-
-On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left,
-Alessandro, seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps,
-and said, “Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the
-violin to him tonight?”
-
-“Why, whose violin have you got?” exclaimed Ramona, astonished.
-
-“My own, Senorita.”
-
-“Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it.”
-
-“Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is
-here.”
-
-“Sent to Temecula and back already!” cried Ramona.
-
-“Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a hundred
-miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and he is at the
-Ortega's by this time.”
-
-Ramona's eyes glistened. “I wish I could have thanked him,” she said.
-“You should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going.”
-
-“I paid him, Senorita; he went for me,” said Alessandro, with a shade of
-wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did
-not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more.
-
-“But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would
-rather pay the messenger herself.”
-
-“It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear
-the violin, I will play;” and Alessandro walked slowly away.
-
-Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no
-thought of his being an Indian,--a thought there had surely been no need
-of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's;
-but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she
-forgotten it.
-
-“What a superb head, and what a walk!” she thought. Then, looking more
-observantly, she said: “He walks as if he were offended. He did not
-like my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted to do it for dear
-Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we will give him some present when he
-goes away.”
-
-“Isn't he splendid, Senorita?” came in a light laughing tone from
-Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their
-relation. “Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he
-dances! Last year I danced with him every night; he has wings on his
-feet, for all he is so tall and big.”
-
-There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was
-suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to
-Ramona. Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had
-never before in her life used. “It is not fitting to speak like that
-about young men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you,” she
-said, and walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if
-she had got a box on the ear.
-
-She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's.
-She had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly
-bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds,
-reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the
-harsh speech from her mind. “Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita,”
- she thought, “to make her speak like that to me.” But the incident was
-not so easily dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the
-day it recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from
-solution as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream of;
-but it was dropped in soil where it would grow some day,--forcing-house
-soil, and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an
-enemy.
-
-All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona
-proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by
-his side, as she had sat for days and nights,--her dark face looking
-thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that
-could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow.
-
-“Dear Senora,” whispered Ramona, “do go out for a few moments while he
-sleeps, and let me watch,--just on the walk in front of the veranda. The
-sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if you do not
-have air.”
-
-The Senora shook her head. “My place is here,” she answered, speaking in
-a dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished
-neither to give it nor take it. “I shall not leave him. I do not need
-the air.”
-
-Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now
-shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It
-was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near
-Felipe's head. “He will like to see it when he wakes,” she said.
-
-The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. “Take it away!
-Flowers are poison when one is ill,” she said coldly. “Have I never told
-you that?”
-
-“No, Senora,” replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at
-the saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's
-pillow.
-
-“The musk is different,” said the Senora, seeing the glance. “Musk is a
-medicine; it revives.”
-
-Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated
-musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his
-mother was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and
-the house would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her
-faint, with a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have
-confessed as much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought
-it all a fancy.
-
-“Shall I stay?” asked Ramona, gently.
-
-“As you please,” replied the Senora. The simple presence of Ramona irked
-her now with a feeling she did not pretend to analyze, and would
-have been terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to say
-to herself, in plain words: “Why is that girl well and strong, and my
-Felipe lying here like to die! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight
-of her. What is she, to be preserved of the saints!”
-
-But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona
-entered the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to
-Felipe. If it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but
-her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated
-her. “What does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!”
- thought the Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely
-forgetting how feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of
-love in the heart.
-
-If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one
-second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already
-occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died
-herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge
-was possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's
-mind. A revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her
-ears. So impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are
-forever held by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of
-our daily companions.
-
-At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had
-dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep.
-
-“Send for Alessandro,” he said. “Let him come and sing to me.”
-
-“He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,”
- said Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the
-messenger's having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a
-day, to bring it.
-
-“I wanted to pay the man,” she said; “I knew of course your mother would
-wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me
-shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing.”
-
-“You couldn't have offended him more,” said Felipe. “What a pity! He is
-as proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has
-always been the head of their band; in fact, he has authority over
-several bands; General, they call it now, since they got the title from
-the Americans; they used to call it Chief., and until Father Peyri left
-San Luis Rey, Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general steward
-and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted him with everything; I've heard he
-would leave boxes full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off
-the Indians. Pablo reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as
-many sheep as we have, I fancy!”
-
-“What!” exclaimed Ramona, astonished. “They all look as if they were
-poor.”
-
-“Oh, well, so they are,” replied Felipe, “compared with us; but one
-reason is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds and
-supports half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he will
-never see one of his Indians hungry.”
-
-“How generous!” warmly exclaimed Ramona; “I think they are better than
-we are, Felipe!”
-
-“I think so, too,” said Felipe. “That's what I have always said. The
-Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they have
-learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when the Fathers
-first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. He has read
-all Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is
-wonderful how the wild savages gave food to every one who came.”
-
-“Felipe, you are talking too much,” said the Senora's voice, in the
-doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she
-had said in words, “See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No
-wonder I do not leave the room except when I must!” her meaning could
-not have been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some
-misgiving that it was deserved.
-
-“Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?” she said timidly; and to the Senora,
-“Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low.”
-
-“Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?” said Felipe. “Tell him to bring
-his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays.”
-
-A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few
-minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds,
-vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,--Ramona searched them all
-in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking
-down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by
-the washing-stones.
-
-“Can he be there?” she said. “What can he be doing there? Who is it with
-him?” And she walked down the path, calling, “Alessandro! Alessandro!”
-
-At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion,
-and almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face
-to face with Ramona.
-
-“Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my violin here.
-I thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him in the twilight.”
-
-“Yes,” replied Ramona, “he wishes to hear you. I have been looking
-everywhere for you.” As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering
-beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the
-brook.
-
-Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. “It is
-Margarita,” he said instantly. “Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run
-and call her?”
-
-“No,” said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew
-she was displeased; “no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing
-there?”
-
-“She is washing,” replied Alessandro, innocently.
-
-“Washing at this time of day!” thought Ramona, severely. “A mere
-pretext. I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort
-of thing.” And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side,
-she meditated whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the
-subject in the morning.
-
-Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections
-not the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water,
-she said to herself, “I may as well finish them now I am here. How
-provoking! I've no more than got a word with him, than she must come,
-calling him away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow, at
-the first word. I'd like to know what's come over the man, to be so
-different. If I could ever get a good half-hour with him alone, I'd soon
-find out. Oh, but his eyes go through me, through and through me! I
-know he's an Indian, but what do I care for that. He's a million times
-handsomer than Senor Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he'd make
-enough better head shepherd than old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only
-see it; and why shouldn't he get to see it, if Alessandro's here
-all summer?” And before the aprons were done, Margarita had a fine
-air-castle up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice little house,
-children playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself
-still working for the Senora. “And the Senorita will perhaps marry Senor
-Felipe,” she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. “He worships
-the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye can see
-that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is
-sure to have a wife, and so and so.” It was an innocent, girlish castle,
-built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or
-low, need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would
-presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never
-dreamed of.
-
-The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business
-with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind
-that before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long
-talk with Alessandro. “He was fond enough of me last year, I know,”
- she said to herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night
-leave-takings at that time. “It's because he is so put upon by everybody
-now. What with Juan Can in one bed sending for him to prate to him about
-the sheep, and Senor Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to
-sleep, and all the care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his
-mind altogether. But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's
-sun sets. If I can once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after
-that; I know the way it is with men!” said the confident Margarita,
-who, truth being told, it must be admitted, did indeed know a great
-deal about the way it is with men, and could be safely backed, in a fair
-field, with a fair start, against any girl of her age and station in
-the country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day
-destined to be an eventful one in her life.
-
-Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some
-reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's
-having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening,
-but would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther
-signs of her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him.
-
-This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection
-for Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's
-displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also
-aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect
-ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. “And he is
-not really to blame,” thought Ramona, “if a girl follows him about and
-makes free with him. She must have seen him at the willows, and gone
-down there on purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For
-she never in this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he must
-have known, if he were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it
-seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as full of grave thought
-as Father Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I
-shall speak to her myself, kindly but firmly, and tell her to conduct
-herself more discreetly.”
-
-Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being
-concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and
-grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the
-phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth.
-
-“I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has,” she said. “I wonder any girl
-should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me,
-feel a constraint. There is something in them like the eyes of a saint,
-so solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good.”
-
-And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day
-a demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs,
-things could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did;
-for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at
-her embroidery in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro
-going with his pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at
-the east of the garden, and joining the almond orchard. “I wonder
-what he is going to do there,” she thought. “He can't be going to cut
-willows;” and her eyes followed him till he disappeared among the trees.
-
-Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the
-east window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. “Now's
-my chance!” she said; and throwing a white reboso coquettishly over her
-head, she slipped around the corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the
-direction in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her steps reached
-Ramona, who, lifting her eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance.
-There was no possible duty, no possible message, which would take
-Margarita there. Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate
-indignation. But she bethought herself, “Ah, the Senora may have sent
-her to call Alessandro!” She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room,
-and looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed,
-with her eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and
-looked inquiringly at Ramona.
-
-“Do you know where Margarita is?” said Ramona.
-
-“In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda,”
- replied the Senora, in a whisper. “I told her to help Marda with the
-peppers this morning.”
-
-Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on
-her course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father
-Salvierderra's room, looked in. The room was still in disorder.
-Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The color deepened on
-Ramona's cheeks. It was strange how accurately she divined each process
-of the incident. “She saw him from this window,” said Ramona, “and has
-run after him. It is shameful. I will go and call her back, and let her
-see that I saw it all. It is high time that this was stopped.”
-
-But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her
-chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her.
-
-“I will wait here till she comes back,” she said, and took up her
-embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly by, she
-sat with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first Alessandro
-and then Margarita had disappeared. At last she could bear it no longer.
-It seemed to her already a very long time. It was not in reality very
-long,--a half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long enough for Margarita
-to have made great headway, as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro,
-and for things to have reached just the worst possible crisis at which
-they could have been surprised, when Ramona suddenly appeared at the
-orchard gate, saying in a stern tone, “Margarita, you are wanted in the
-house!” At a bad crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture
-which Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro,
-standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging
-listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand
-of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face, with a
-half-saucy, half-loving expression. What made bad matters worse, was,
-that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro snatched his hand from
-Margarita's, and tried to draw farther off from her, looking at her with
-an expression which, even in her anger, Ramona could not help seeing was
-one of disgust and repulsion. And if Ramona saw it, how much more did
-Margarita! Saw it, as only a woman repulsed in presence of another woman
-can see and feel. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye;
-the telling it takes double, treble the time of the happening. Before
-Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ramona and Margarita
-were disappearing from view under the garden trellis,--Ramona walking in
-advance, stately, silent, and Margarita following, sulky, abject in her
-gait, but with a raging whirlwind in her heart.
-
-It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the
-truth. Alessandro too.
-
-“My God.” he said, “the Senorita thought me making love to that girl.
-May the fiends get her! The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How
-could she think a man would look at a woman after he had once seen her!
-And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! Oh, this cannot be
-borne!” And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling
-through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old
-olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place.
-How could he ever look the Senorita in the face again!
-
-“Perdition take that girl!” he said over and over in his helpless
-despair. An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not
-deserved it.
-
-In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen
-Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special
-harm, except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with
-him,--for she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone
-a little farther,--had not let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next
-second she had seen in his face a look; oh, she would never forget it,
-never! That she should live to have had any man look at her like that!
-At the first glimpse of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed
-rushing into his face, and he had snatched his hand away,--for it was
-Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,--had snatched
-his hand away, and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All
-this might have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's
-seeing them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal
-better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, appealing,
-worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes rested on Ramona, was
-like a flash of light into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than
-Alessandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her first rage she did
-not realize either the gulf between herself and Ramona, or that between
-Ramona and Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had
-all been equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was
-embodied insolence in the tone in which she said presently, “Did the
-Senorita want me?”
-
-Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said:
-“I saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I
-knew that you were at the brook last night with Alessandro. All I wanted
-of you was, to tell you that if I see anything more of this sort, I
-shall speak to the Senora.”
-
-“There is no harm,” muttered Margarita, sullenly. “I don't know what the
-Senorita means.”
-
-“You know very well, Margarita,” retorted Ramona. “You know that the
-Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do.” And
-with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her
-embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good
-Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's
-would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words
-which were being spoken on the veranda a little later.
-
-After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate
-generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded
-himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the
-time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had
-just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner
-had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house,
-hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her
-time when not with Senor Felipe.
-
-When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in
-her embroidery. She did not wish to look at him.
-
-The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would
-not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not
-know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the
-consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and
-surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval
-of freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the
-passion of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the
-sun's rays. Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she
-sprang to her feet.
-
-“Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a
-long time to speak to her. I wished to say--”
-
-Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to
-say.
-
-As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But
-she spoke not, only looked at him searchingly.
-
-“Senorita,” he began again, “I would never be unfaithful to my duty to
-the Senora, and to you.”
-
-“I believe you, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It is not necessary to say
-more.”
-
-At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not
-hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him.
-He felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and
-her.
-
-“It is well,” he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people.
-“It is well.” And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked
-away. Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father
-Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover
-to whom he was speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind
-a curtain, she saw the look with which he said them; saw also the
-expression on Ramona's face as she listened.
-
-Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an
-enemy.
-
-“Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!” said the girl,
-bitterly. “He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I haven't
-got to confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in that time.”
-
-Much, indeed!
-
-
-
-
-VIII
-
-FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra
-had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with
-little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was
-almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every
-day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the
-only thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he
-would talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show
-for a few moments something like his old animation; but he was soon
-tired, and would close his eyes, saying: “I will speak with you again
-about this, Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing.”
-
-The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon
-came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly
-liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's
-favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved
-in demeanor. She had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent,
-self-contained, mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed
-Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can,
-he did not know how matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he
-had, he would have been in a fever of apprehension, and would have got
-at swords' points with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all
-unaware of the real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the
-Mexican he dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear,
-asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise Alessandro to
-the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had not something to
-say in favor of the lad, as he called him.
-
-“Truly, Senora,” he said again and again, “I do marvel where the lad
-got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep
-business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,--a deal more; and it
-is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of
-cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for
-a remedy of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I knew not that
-there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such.”
-
-“No, I fancy not,” the Senora would reply, absently. “His father is a
-man of intelligence, and has trained his son well.”
-
-“There is nothing he is not ready to do,” continued Alessandro's
-eulogist. “He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a
-carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief
-like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good
-lad,--a good lad.”
-
-None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and
-more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan
-had feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his
-temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working
-in the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this
-young, strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ.
-The possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would
-hesitate about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno,
-did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would
-be plenty of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the
-young man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the
-idea, and propose it.
-
-So one day she said to Felipe: “What a voice that Alessandro has,
-Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?”
-
-“He's not going!” exclaimed Felipe, startled.
-
-“Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was
-about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I
-suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here
-ill, my son.”
-
-“True, true!” said Felipe. “Is it really a month already?” and he
-sighed.
-
-“Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of
-his years,” continued the Senora. “He says he is as skilled with cattle
-as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He
-seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had
-such behavior.”
-
-“Old Pablo is just like him,” said Felipe. “It was natural enough,
-living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with
-a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them.”
-
-“I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you
-will be well and strong,” said the Senora; “you would not miss him then,
-would you?”
-
-“Yes, I would, too!” said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to
-be childish. “I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as
-any man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on
-any ranch.”
-
-“Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?” asked the Senora, in a
-surprised tone. “I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are
-all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not
-poor.”
-
-“Oh, it isn't that,” said Felipe, impatiently. “You can't understand,
-because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we
-are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They shear sheep for
-money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference.
-Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village
-obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith, much more
-so!” added Felipe, laughing. “You can't understand it, mother, but it's
-so. I am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to
-tempt him to stay here as my servant.”
-
-The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. “No, I do not understand it,”
- she said. “Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that
-these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,--naked
-savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves
-too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and civilize them. The
-race was never meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers
-ever expected to make of them,--good, faithful Catholics, and contented
-laborers in the fields. Of course there are always exceptional
-instances, and I think, myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe,
-however, he is so exceptional, but that if you were to offer him, for
-instance, the same wages you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance
-of staying on the place.”
-
-“Well, I shall think about it,” said Felipe. “I'd like nothing better
-than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think
-about it.”
-
-Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.
-
-Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing
-Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but
-listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with
-Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done
-this much,--that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she
-trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any
-more than when she thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican.
-Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she had admitted to
-herself, as Margarita had done before her, that Alessandro was far the
-handsomer man of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she
-could not help it.
-
-“I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,” she said to
-herself many a time. “I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder
-if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is.”
-
-When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis
-money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips
-suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent.
-She had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations
-between her and her son.
-
-Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after
-his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the
-point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, “What was it,
-Ramona, you were going to say just now?”
-
-Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it.
-
-“Tell me, Ramona,” persisted Felipe. “You were going to say something
-about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.”
-
-Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself
-embarrassed before Felipe.
-
-“Don't you like Alessandro?” said Felipe.
-
-“Oh, yes!” replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. “It was not that at
-all. I like him very much;” But then she stopped.
-
-“Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his
-staying?”
-
-“Oh, no, no; not a word!” said Ramona. “Everybody understands that he is
-here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you
-could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay.”
-
-“Well,” said Felipe, inquiringly, “I do not. Do you?”
-
-“I think he would like to stay,” said Ramona, hesitatingly. “That was
-what I was going to say.”
-
-“What makes you think so?” asked Felipe.
-
-“I don't know,” Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had
-said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like
-this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not characteristic
-of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion
-or jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went through Felipe's
-mind,--went through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if
-he had been, he would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian
-sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a
-trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and
-after this, it was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely
-than he had done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should
-seem by a shade altered in either, would watch still more closely.
-Meshes were closing around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and
-act,--Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love
-and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had,
-matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was
-clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, never
-long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers were not in
-focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of
-the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in
-so far as her means allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for
-the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal
-relation with her, a mother's affection, or even interest and
-acquaintance, no. The Senora had not that to give. And if she had it
-not, was she to blame? What could she do? Years ago Father Salvierderra
-had left off remonstrating with her on this point. “Is there more I
-should do for the child? Do you see aught lacking, aught amiss?” the
-Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus
-inquired of, could not point out a duty which had been neglected.
-
-“You do not love her, my daughter,” he said.
-
-“No.” Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. “No, I
-do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will.”
-
-“That is true,” the Father would say sadly; “but affection may be
-cultivated.”
-
-“Yes, if it exists,” was the Senora's constant answer. “But in this case
-it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and
-to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to
-her.”
-
-It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, “Be cast into the sea,”
- as try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of
-itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona
-the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year,
-and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath
-than this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe,
-lonely in the Senora Moreno's house.
-
-Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that
-fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how
-should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at
-school with the nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house.
-Felipe was the only young man she had known,--Felipe, her brother since
-she was five years old.
-
-There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he
-needed them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went
-as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed
-to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have
-asked the Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now
-infrequent journeys to these places would have required more courage
-than Ramona possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent
-school, but she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the
-day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few
-romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most
-innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike than
-before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy temperament, had
-kept her singularly contented in her monotonous life. She had fed the
-birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the chapel in order, helped in
-light household work, embroidered, sung, and, as the Senora eight
-years before had bade her do, said her prayers and pleased Father
-Salvierderra.
-
-By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept
-strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,--he by living in
-the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled
-with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light
-and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child.
-
-As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro
-meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing
-or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him
-uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was
-never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling.
-
-“I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room,
-and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,”
- said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. “Do you think I should anger them
-if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put
-him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in
-a week.”
-
-“And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the
-estate, and get it, lad,” replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening
-in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, “Do not be so
-hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I
-was only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe
-on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not
-get up from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is
-but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case,
-I have never been able to find out.”
-
-“Would it not be the Senorita?” asked Alessandro.
-
-Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. “Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say
-that!” he said. “Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more
-than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye,
-Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the
-Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of
-theirs.”
-
-“Yes,” said Alessandro; “Margarita has said to me that the Senorita
-Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno.”
-
-“Foster-child!” repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, “there is something
-to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in
-Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any
-of their people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna
-that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale
-about her birth.”
-
-If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have
-seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his
-words more carefully. But he went on: “It was after the Senora Ortegna
-was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and
-I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as
-if she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair
-and good a child as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a
-stain on the blood, lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know,
-her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big
-Saint Joseph there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking
-to Father Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one
-blood in her veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses with
-Indians.'”
-
-If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word “Indian” have
-bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than
-before, and said in a low voice, “How know you it was the mother that
-was the Indian?”
-
-Juan laughed again, maliciously: “Ha, it is the Ortegna face she has;
-and that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the whole coast.
-There was not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except for his
-wife's sake.”
-
-“But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that
-the child was?” asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each
-moment now; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip,
-that he noticed nothing.
-
-“Ay, ay. So I said,” he went on; “and so it was. There be such saints,
-you know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter
-to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to
-hold them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant
-and leaving it in the Senora's room; and she, poor lady, never having
-had a child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with
-her to the last; and I wager me, a hard time she had to get our Senora
-to take the child when she died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I
-think our Senora would as soon the child had been dead.”
-
-“Has she not treated her kindly?” asked Alessandro, in a husky voice.
-
-Juan Can's pride resented this question. “Do you suppose the Senora
-Moreno would do an unkindness to one under her roof?” he asked loftily.
-“The Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself.
-It was so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard.”
-
-“Does the Senorita know all this?” asked Alessandro.
-
-Juan Can crossed himself. “Saints save us, no!” he exclaimed. “I'll not
-forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing,
-when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she went to the
-Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had said her mother
-was no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora came to
-me, and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house;
-but if ever I hear of your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita
-Ramona, on this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you
-leave my service!'--And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it,
-Alessandro, now?” said the old man, anxiously. “My tongue runs away with
-me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,--an active man
-like me.”
-
-“No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured,” said Alessandro, walking
-away slowly.
-
-“Here! Here!” called Juan. “What about that plan you had for making a
-bed for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?”
-
-“Ah, I had forgotten,” said Alessandro, returning. “Yes, that was it.
-There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says
-that it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the Mission
-days. I myself like the ground even better; but my father sleeps always
-on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of
-it to the Senora?”
-
-“Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself,” said Juan. “It will be as he
-says. He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but
-yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to
-the wall, Alessandro.”
-
-“Nay, Juan Canito,” replied Alessandro, kindly. “It is not so. My father
-is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as
-firmly as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still.”
-
-“What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?” thought
-Juan; but he answered, “It is not so with us. The old are not held in
-such reverence.”
-
-“That is not well,” replied Alessandro. “We have been taught
-differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many years
-older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of
-the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many years ago. He is long past
-a hundred years of age. He is blind and childish, and cannot walk; but
-he is cared for by every one. And we bring him in our arms to every
-council, and set him by my father's side. He talks very foolishly
-sometimes, but my father will not let him be interrupted. He says
-it brings bad luck to affront the aged. We will presently be aged
-ourselves.”
-
-“Ay, ay!” said Juan, sadly. “We must all come to it. It is beginning to
-look not so far off to me!”
-
-Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious
-revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been
-at his. “Faith, old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!” he
-thought; but went on with the topic of the raw-hide bed. “I may not so
-soon get speech with Senor Felipe,” he said. “It is usually when he is
-sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But it makes my heart heavy
-to see him thus languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and
-the sun, I do believe, indeed, Juan.”
-
-“Ask the Senorita, then,” said Juan. “She has his ear at all times.”
-
-Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,--this
-suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He
-could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her.
-
-“I will speak to the Senora,” he said; and as luck would have it, at
-that moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan
-Can's health.
-
-The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself
-had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them.
-“Yes,” she said, “they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday
-that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; and when he
-was well, he thought nothing could be so good; he brought it here, at a
-great price, for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would
-throw me off as soon as I lay down; it is a cheating device, like all
-these innovations the Americans have brought into the country. But Senor
-Felipe till now thought it a luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is
-throwing him all the time.”
-
-Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. “I once lay
-down on one myself, Senora,” he said, “and that was what I said to my
-father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck.
-I thought perhaps the invention was of the saints, that men should not
-sleep too long.”
-
-“There is a pile of raw-hides,” said Juan, “well cured, but not too
-stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of
-those will be just right. It must not be too dry.”
-
-“The fresher the better,” said Alessandro, “so it have no dampness.
-Shall I make the bed, Senora?” he asked, “and will the Senora permit
-that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought
-I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor Felipe into the
-outer air. With us, it is thought death to be shut up in walls, as he
-has been so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we go into the dark
-like that.”
-
-The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor
-of fresh air.
-
-“Night and day both?” she said. “Surely it is not well to sleep out in
-the night?”
-
-“That is the best of all, Senora,” replied Alessandro, earnestly. “I beg
-the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly after the
-first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar.”
-
-“No, only mistaken,” said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly
-drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe.
-“When I die and leave Felipe here,” she had more than once said to
-herself, “it would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this
-on the place.”
-
-“Very well, Alessandro,” she replied; “make the bed, and we will try it
-at once.”
-
-This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west,
-when Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw
-Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed.
-
-“What can that be?” she said. “Some new invention of Alessandro's, but
-for what?”
-
-“A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita,” said Alessandro, running lightly
-up the steps. “The Senora has given permission to place it here on the
-veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; and it will be
-a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room
-which is keeping him weak now; he has no illness.”
-
-“I believe that is the truth, Alessandro,” exclaimed Ramona; “I have
-been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but
-an hour, and when I come here I am well. But the nights too, Alessandro?
-Is it not harmful to sleep out in the night air?”
-
-“Why, Senorita?” asked Alessandro, simply.
-
-And Ramona had no answer, except, “I do not know; I have always heard
-so.”
-
-“My people do not think so,” replied Alessandro; “unless it is cold,
-we like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the
-night.”
-
-“I should think it would be,” cried Ramona. “I never thought of it. I
-should like to do it.”
-
-Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in
-a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona
-would have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than
-the one she had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with
-Margarita. All day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain
-a confused procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words,
-they would have been found to be little more than ringing changes on
-this idea: “The Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The
-Senorita Ramona is alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian
-blood!” These, or something like them, would have been the words; but
-Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked away on the rough
-posts for Senor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the
-raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, striking every
-blow, with a bounding sense of exultant strength, as if there were
-suddenly all around him a new heaven and a new earth.
-
-Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, “It
-must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it,” these vague
-confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant
-strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,--a vision
-of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up to
-them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, “There, Senorita!
-That is all firm, now. If Senor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed,
-he will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill.”
-
-Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, “The bed is all ready on the
-veranda,” she exclaimed. “Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?”
-
-Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression
-of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive
-nature far worse than anger. “I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the
-change, Ramona,” she said. “I supposed that Alessandro would have
-informed me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly.
-Felipe is still very weak, you see.”
-
-“What is it? What is it?” exclaimed Felipe, impatiently.
-
-As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to
-be moved.
-
-“That's just what I needed!” he exclaimed. “This cursed bed racks every
-bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty
-man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro,” he went on, seeing
-Alessandro in the doorway. “Come here, and take me up in those long arms
-of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better.”
-
-Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light
-burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than
-Alessandro to lift.
-
-Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets.
-As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her
-hands, saying, “I will arrange them myself;” and waved Ramona away.
-
-It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would
-have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were
-not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears
-at the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked
-swiftly away, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
-
-Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it.
-
-To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but
-too well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his
-weakness, was, “Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!”
-
-To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he
-stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up,
-half afraid.
-
-“Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?” he said smiling.
-
-“It is not your weight, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, off guard,
-still trembling, his eyes following Ramona.
-
-Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met.
-Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at
-Alessandro.
-
-“Ah!” he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head
-sink back into the pillow.
-
-“Is that comfortable? Is that right?” asked the Senora, who had seen
-nothing.
-
-“The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,” said Felipe. “Stay,
-Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has
-shaken me up a good deal. Wait.”
-
-“Yes, Senor,” replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda
-steps.
-
-“If you are to stay, Alessandro,” said the Senora, “I will go and look
-after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about
-Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?”
-
-“Yes, Senora,” said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had
-been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant.
-In fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind
-whether there could be any possibility of his getting away before the
-expiration of the time for which he had agreed to stay.
-
-It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he
-was asleep.
-
-At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some
-minutes. “Alessandro,” he said.
-
-Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did
-not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had
-seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro
-was preparing for anything.
-
-“Alessandro,” said Felipe, “my mother has been speaking to me about your
-remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this
-accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor soul! We are in
-great need of some man who understands sheep, and the care of the place
-generally.”
-
-As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing
-expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood
-the surprise. “I knew you would be surprised,” he said. “I told my
-mother that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only
-because we were in trouble.”
-
-Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave
-him pleasure.
-
-“Yes, Senor,” he said, “that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was
-not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can
-earn. Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether my father
-would think I ought to take the place you offer me, or not, Senor. It
-would be as he said. I will ask him.”
-
-“Then you would be willing to take it?” asked Felipe.
-
-“Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it,” replied Alessandro,
-looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's
-pause, “if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a
-pleasure to me to be of help to you.”
-
-And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning
-over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service
-immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse
-of passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden
-consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro
-was not mistaken.
-
-
-
-
-IX
-
-WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep,
-Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his
-breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the
-same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to
-Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed.
-
-“You can go now, Alessandro,” said the Senora. “I will sit here. You
-are quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all
-night?”
-
-“It will cure him before many nights,” replied Alessandro, still without
-raising his eyes, and turning to go.
-
-“Stay,” said the Senora. Alessandro paused. “It will not do for him to
-be alone here in the night, Alessandro.”
-
-Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on
-the veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the
-Senorita's window.
-
-“No, Senora,” he replied. “I will lie here by his side. That was what I
-had thought, if the Senora is willing.”
-
-“Thank you, Alessandro,” said the Senora, in a tone which would have
-surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes.
-She did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any one but
-Felipe. “Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you.”
-
-“Oh, no.” cried Alessandro; “if the Senora will excuse me, I could not
-lie on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I
-want. I could not lie on any bed.”
-
-“To be sure,” thought the Senora; “what was I thinking of! How the
-boy makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the
-ground, Alessandro,” she said kindly.
-
-“No, Senora,” he said, “it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep.
-I will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should
-wake and need something.”
-
-“I will watch him myself till midnight,” said the Senora. “I should feel
-easier to see how he sleeps at first.”
-
-It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing
-were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and
-on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from
-her window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him
-spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take
-her place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were
-both going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit
-up and watch with Felipe.
-
-“I am not of any use to anybody,” she thought sadly. She dared not
-go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At
-supper the Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant
-manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen
-Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who, in the former times,--ah,
-how far away those former times looked now!--had been a greater comfort
-to Ramona than she realized,--Margarita now was sulky and silent, never
-came into Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her
-sometimes with an expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to
-herself, “She hates me; She has always hated me since that morning.”
-
-It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window
-leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up
-and down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in
-any wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved
-her. More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go.
-Her mind was not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in
-intercourse with men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro
-loved her, and distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she
-was, as she sat at her window this night, looking out into the moonlit
-garden; after she had gone to bed, she could still hear his slow,
-regular steps on the garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she
-fell asleep, was that she was glad Alessandro loved her.
-
-The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines,
-were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in
-her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low,
-regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to
-it for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to
-the window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought;
-but it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear;
-without a sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's
-window.
-
-“I am here, Senorita,” he whispered. “Do you want anything?”
-
-“Has he slept all night like this?” she whispered back.
-
-“Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved.”
-
-“How good!” said Ramona. “How good!”
-
-Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear
-him speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she
-could not, she gave a little sigh.
-
-Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. “May the saints bless
-you, Senorita,” he whispered fervently.
-
-“Thank you, Alessandro,” murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed,
-but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light
-filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open.
-
-“Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe,” thought
-Ramona; and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words
-between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed
-again, and all was still.
-
-“I thought she would not have the heart to wake him,” said Ramona to
-herself. “The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure;
-but I will say a prayer to her instead;” and she sank on her knees at
-the head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall
-of a spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the
-ear of that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose
-from the floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness
-was so far softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen.
-Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was
-sure he had heard her voice.
-
-“Did the Senorita speak?” he whispered, his face close at the curtain.
-Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the
-wooden floor.
-
-“No, no, Alessandro,” she said, “I did not speak.” And she trembled,
-she knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to
-Alessandro what had been the whispered words he heard.
-
-“She was at her prayers,” he thought, ashamed and sorry. “Forgive me,”
- he whispered, “I thought you called;” and he stepped back to the outer
-edge of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie
-down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window.
-Through the transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly,
-steadily, till at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful
-of all else, she knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor,
-forgotten. Ramona would not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart
-was full of thanksgiving and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better
-prayer than any in the book.
-
-The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the
-veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The
-Senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but
-he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro
-only long enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's
-bed, holding her breath, he lay so still.
-
-“Ought he to sleep so long?” she whispered.
-
-“Till the noon, it may be,” answered Alessandro; “and when he wakes, you
-will see by his eye that he is another man.”
-
-It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed
-outright with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the
-steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him,
-“Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why couldn't that fool from
-Ventura have known as much? With all his learning, he had had me in the
-next world before many days, except for you. Now, Alessandro, breakfast!
-I'm hungry. I had forgotten what the thought of food was like to a
-hungry stomach. And plenty! plenty!” he called, as Alessandro ran toward
-the kitchen. “Bring all they have.”
-
-When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright,
-his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self,
-she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then
-turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, “May Heaven reward you!” and
-disappeared abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes
-were red. All day she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed
-inconceivable. She even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona.
-She felt like one brought back from the dead.
-
-After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on
-the veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The
-servants came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk
-below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches
-Alessandro had made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way
-round the house, to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The
-Senora sat there, in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her
-black silk banded head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her
-large dark eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona
-lived there too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on
-the floor in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed,
-however,--if anybody had noticed, but nobody did,--so placed that she
-could look at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if
-the Senora were not in it.
-
-Here also came Alessandro many times a day,--sometimes sent for,
-sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or
-sang he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden.
-He also had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the
-positions he chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot
-which best commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own.
-Felipe knew it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell
-exploding at their feet would not have more astonished the different
-members of this circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would
-to have been made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in
-Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at
-them all.
-
-It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when
-the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and
-that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled
-with jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he
-was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die;
-it did not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and
-ever again be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of
-his own death, always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of
-her, if he were gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would
-be broken; that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe
-adored his mother; but he understood her feeling about Ramona.
-
-With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in
-long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to
-puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into
-his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him,
-had always loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a
-little at himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet,
-mournful tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going
-out of the world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new
-quality was coming into his love for her. He himself was returning
-to the brother love which he had had for her when they were children
-together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a man and
-Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this
-was finally clear and settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more
-misgiving and fear about his mother in the matter than he had ever
-admitted to himself; perhaps also the consciousness of Ramona's
-unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but all this was past now.
-Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What course should he pursue
-in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could he best help Ramona?
-What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought
-of any possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into
-Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's to
-think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in forecasting,
-plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his life he felt
-himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That any concern
-as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence her, he
-knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was concerned,
-Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar,
-and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted
-daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as
-foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit such a
-one to marry an Indian?
-
-Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more
-he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be
-decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for
-forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature
-indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by.
-It was exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him;
-his mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro
-was always at hand, ready for any service,--in the field, in the
-house,--his music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his
-personal presence always agreeable. “If only my mother could think
-it,” reflected Felipe, “it would be the best thing, all round, to have
-Alessandro stay here as overseer of the place, and then they might be
-married. Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so.”
-
-And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the
-valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes
-filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied
-vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but
-there were lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and
-geraniums in the pots, and musk,--oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was
-like an enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping
-relays of musk to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an
-enchanter's spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.'
-But the bees liked it, and the humming-birds,--the butterflies also;
-and the air was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the
-season's noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches
-and the canaries too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly
-feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their
-thickest; no need any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up
-that first morning to keep the sun off Felipe's head.
-
-What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot
-as this? “To-morrow,” said Felipe, “I will speak to my mother,” and
-“to-morrow,” and “to-morrow;” but he did not.
-
-There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe
-knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about
-her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the
-watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge
-was going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be
-as it fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come
-she never doubted.
-
-When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening
-to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his
-ease and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger
-was almost beyond bounds.
-
-“Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!” she sneered. “It is new
-times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house,
-and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We shall see; we
-shall see what comes of all this!” And she knew not which she hated the
-more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona.
-
-Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken
-to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At
-first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her.
-As soon as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in
-the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. “A man should
-not be rude to any maiden,” he thought; and he hated to remember how he
-had pushed Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away, when he
-had in the outset made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's
-resentment was not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how
-little Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them.
-“Let him go to his Senorita,” she said bitterly, mocking the reverential
-tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the word. “She is fond
-enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to
-throw herself at his head before long, if this kind of thing keeps up.
-'It is not well to speak thus freely of young men, Margarita!' Ha,
-ha! Little I thought that day which way the wind set in my mistress's
-temper! I'll wager she reproves me no more, under this roof or any
-other! Curse her! What did she want of Alessandro, except to turn his
-head, and then bid him go his way!”
-
-To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of
-Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more
-or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any
-one of the shepherds,--this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry
-imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro.
-There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of
-such a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that
-idea would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to
-Margarita.
-
-Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not
-know. The girl was always like a sprite,--here, there, everywhere, in
-an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all
-sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved
-swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of
-any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and
-Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had
-not either seen or surmised.
-
-In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not
-strange that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved
-untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought
-himself, from his vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from
-his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most that happened,
-would have been astonished to hear all that Margarita could have
-told him. In the first days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him
-much,--had told him how Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and
-bathe and keep alive the green ferns with which she had decorated the
-chapel for Father Salvierderra's coming, had said: “Oh, Senorita, they
-are dead! Do not take trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;”
- and the next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of
-such ferns as she had never before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes,
-six and eight feet high; the feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and
-the silver, twice as large as she ever had found them. The chapel was
-beautiful, like a conservatory, after she had arranged them in vases and
-around the high candlesticks.
-
-It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all
-of the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the
-cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think
-it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made
-wreaths of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers
-which ever were made,--great soft round disks of fine straight threads
-like silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff
-points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the
-strangest thing in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay
-there on the ground. She had put a great wreath of them around Saint
-Joseph's head, and a bunch in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora
-saw them, she exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been
-made of silk and satin.
-
-And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian
-women at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare
-country; it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,--red and yellow,
-in alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a
-bright-colored bird.
-
-And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black,
-that came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got
-it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed
-that there was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's
-thoughtfulness and good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that
-Alessandro had said,--tales of the old Mission days that he had heard
-from his father; stories of saints, and of the early Fathers, who were
-more like saints than like men, Alessandro said,--Father Junipero, who
-founded the first Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's
-grandfather had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a
-miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. There was a
-cup out of which the Father always took his chocolate for breakfast,--a
-beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the only luxury the Father
-had; and one morning it was broken, and everybody was in terror and
-despair. “Never mind, never mind,” said the Father; “I will make it
-whole;” and taking the two pieces in his hands, he held them tight
-together, and prayed over them, and they became one solid piece again,
-and it was used all through the journey, just as before.
-
-But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's
-sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief
-replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another
-thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to
-others she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she
-looked quickly up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance.
-Alessandro also observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He
-knew how differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when
-they were alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he
-was mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it.
-
-It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows
-by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened,
-it was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went
-often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not
-avowed, but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him
-there, at least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a
-pleasant spot,--cool and shady even at noon, and the running water
-always full of music. Ramona often knelt there of a morning, washing out
-a bit of lace or a handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went
-hard with him to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him
-vividly of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face
-in the sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that
-he even now thought her less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to
-be human! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time, and,
-lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water, and played
-with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like
-these: “Whither have gone the drops that passed beneath her hands, just
-here? These drops will never find those in the sea; but I love this
-water!”
-
-Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined
-sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it,
-thinking to herself: “He hopes his Senorita will come down to him there.
-A nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover, at the washing-stones!
-It will take swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ramona, to
-wash you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever she come upon you there
-with the head shepherd, making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that
-could only happen, I'd die content!” And the more Margarita watched,
-the more she thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was
-oftener at the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro
-met; and, as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked
-each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it
-had happened to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on
-the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be
-ordered to call the Senorita to supper.
-
-“If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did to
-me, 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul good! I'd
-say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! It will
-come! It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one of these
-fine times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!”
-
-
-
-
-X
-
-IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's
-most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It
-was the Senora herself.
-
-Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his
-chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little,
-the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of
-long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants,
-that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had
-not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose
-in walking over it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she
-could afford to sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they
-greatly desired to buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This
-bit of land lay farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it
-had taken more time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was
-already sunset on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned
-off from the highway into the same shortcut path in which Father
-Salvierderra had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now
-in getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry, and had
-been trampled by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was
-dusky twilight when she reached the willows; so dusky that she saw
-nothing--and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown path that she
-made no sound--until suddenly, face to face with a man and a woman
-standing locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back a pace,
-gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same second, recognized the faces of
-the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, each gazing into her face with
-terror.
-
-Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had
-stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice.
-
-“Senora,” she began.
-
-“Silence! Shameful creature!” cried the Senora. “Do not dare to speak!
-Go to your room!”
-
-Ramona did not move.
-
-“As for you,” the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, “you,”--she
-was about to say, “You are discharged from my service from this hour,”
- but recollecting herself in time, said,--“you will answer to Senor
-Felipe. Out of my sight!” And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in
-her life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. “Out
-of my sight!” she repeated.
-
-Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring
-look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no
-idea what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma.
-
-“Go, Alessandro,” said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in
-the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had
-walked away.
-
-Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her
-own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A
-wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of
-her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, “Senora,” the Senora did a
-shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.
-
-“Speak not to me!” she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she
-pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk.
-
-“Senora, you hurt my arm,” said Ramona, still in the same calm voice.
-“You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid.”
-
-Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and
-stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it
-an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would
-have thought it capable. “What does this mean?” thought the Senora,
-still weak, and trembling all over, from rage. “The hussy, the
-hypocrite!” and she seized the arm again.
-
-This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like
-a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and
-locked on the outside.
-
-All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona
-and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with
-impatience at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had
-gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry,
-and if he and the Senorita would not have their supper.
-
-“No, no, not till the Senora returns,” Felipe had answered. He, too,
-happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew
-also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he
-did not know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of
-the willows at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to
-summon Ramona.
-
-When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling
-Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's
-pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch.
-Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona
-had helped her in times gone by,--sheltered her from the Senora's
-displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. “Holy Virgin! what
-will be done to her now?” she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita
-had never conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp
-reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro,--this was
-all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora
-looked as if she might kill her.
-
-“She always did hate her, in her heart,” reflected Margarita; “she
-shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that.
-But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought
-her to such a pass as this;” and Margarita's jealousy again got the
-better of her sympathy. “Good enough for her. No more than she deserved.
-An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any
-girl!” Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again.
-
-It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's
-view and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from
-above, and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they
-were both equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a
-disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of
-conjecturing or of believing the truth.
-
-As ill luck would have it,--or was it good luck?--Felipe also had
-witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked
-out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had
-seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,--Ramona pale, but
-strangely placid; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The
-sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand,
-he groaned out: “Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come
-on them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!” And Felipe
-threw himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he
-heard his mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained
-silent, sure she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and,
-seeing him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, “Felipe, dear,
-are you ill?” he replied in a feeble voice, “No, mother, only tired a
-little to-night;” and as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw
-his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. “Mother mia!” he said
-passionately, “what should I do without you?” The caress, the loving
-words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. They restored the Senora
-as nothing else could. What mattered anything, so long as she had her
-adoring and adorable son! And she would not speak to him, now that he
-was so tired, of this disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It
-could wait till morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and
-he would not miss Ramona, perhaps.
-
-“I will send your supper here, Felipe,” she said; “you must not
-overdo; you have been walking too much. Lie still.” And kissing him
-affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly
-trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve
-supper. When the Senora entered, with her countenance composed, and in
-her ordinary tones said, “Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper
-into his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,”
- Margarita was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream.
-Had she, or had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora,
-shaking and speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her
-room, and lock her up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still
-and gazed at the Senora, with her mouth wide open.
-
-“What are you staring at, girl?” asked the Senora, so sharply that
-Margarita jumped.
-
-“Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to
-supper? Shall I call her?” she said.
-
-The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora
-Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no
-matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should
-treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was wrong.
-
-“The Senorita is not well,” she said coldly. “She is in her room. I
-myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb
-her.” And the Senora returned to Felipe.
-
-Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had
-spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those
-two short hours how much had happened!
-
-“Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon,” said the
-bitter Margarita, “and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how
-he will carry himself.”
-
-But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen.
-The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock,
-and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the
-places where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro
-was not to be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he
-thought he was discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but
-luckily held his peace, and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the
-geranium clump at the chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees
-drawn up to his chin, watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay
-there all night. He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him,
-she would either open her window and call, or would come out and go down
-through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would see her
-from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad
-with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved
-him. She had told him so. She had said she would go away with him and
-be his wife. The words had but just passed her lips, at that dreadful
-moment when the Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived the scene
-over again, he re-experienced the joy and the terror equally.
-
-What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look
-at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the
-Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing
-for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's
-mind, that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as
-she did, in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona?
-Could she live in a house such as he must live in,--live as the Temecula
-women lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some
-town, must do--he knew not what--something to earn more money. Anguish
-seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The
-more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and
-his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his,
-to look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone
-on loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,--now, in
-a moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had
-spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had
-put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed
-her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had
-been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden kisses a
-man unless she will wed with him,--him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the
-man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering,
-afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, in the very instant of
-their first kiss,--wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who
-had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a
-Moreno!
-
-Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his
-friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's
-instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora?
-Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of them?
-
-As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the
-whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's
-love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act
-of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which
-she had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the
-time of Felipe's fall, “You are Alessandro, are you not?” He heard again
-her soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda.
-He recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner;
-the evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without
-food. “O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?”
- he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her
-forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago,
-when he first told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She
-had said, “I know you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it,” and had
-lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry;
-and when he threw his arms around her, she had of her own accord come
-closer, and laid one hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his.
-Ah, what else mattered! There was the whole world; if she loved him like
-this, nothing could make them wretched; his love would be enough for
-her,--and for him hers was an empire.
-
-It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have
-believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken
-between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first
-moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first
-caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at
-the instant, than there is of the instant of the opening of a flower.
-Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had
-held with him in regard to remaining on the place, and asked her if she
-knew of the plan.
-
-“Yes,” she said; “I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some
-days ago.”
-
-“Was she against my staying?” asked Alessandro, quickly.
-
-“I think not,” said Ramona, “but I am not sure. It is not easy to be
-sure what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed
-it.”
-
-This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the
-Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind.
-
-“I do not understand, Senorita,” he said. “What do you mean by
-'afterward'?”
-
-“I mean,” replied Ramona, “that the Senora never says she wishes
-anything; she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to
-Father Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes to
-have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you think
-so?”
-
-“She loves Senor Felipe very much,” was Alessandro's evasive reply.
-
-“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Ramona. “You do not begin to know how much. She
-does not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any
-left. If he had died, she would have died too. That is the reason she
-likes you so much; she thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that
-is one reason,” added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at
-Alessandro, who smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that
-the Senorita was pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the
-Senora's regard.
-
-“I do not think she likes me,” he said. “I cannot tell why; but I do
-not think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I ever
-saw, Senorita.”
-
-“No,” replied Ramona, thoughtfully. “She is not. I am, oh, so afraid of
-her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little girl. I
-used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care one way or
-the other, if I keep out of her way.”
-
-While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running
-water at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in
-Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would
-have drawn near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did
-not look up. She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for
-Alessandro.
-
-“Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and
-looked at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself
-in, and be carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin,
-Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the next
-morning, when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been glad
-enough I had not done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro?”
-
-“No, Senorita, never,” replied Alessandro; “and it is thought a great
-disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it.
-But, oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will
-you always be so? Must you always stay here?”
-
-“Oh, but I am not always unhappy!” said Ramona, with her sunny little
-laugh. “Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that
-if one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that it is a sin not
-to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work
-there is to do; and there is always plenty of that.” Then, her face
-clouding, she continued: “I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no
-other home; you know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died
-when I was little, and the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra
-says I must never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for
-me, and I try not to.”
-
-Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to
-him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to
-cry out, “O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They
-despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins; come to me; come to
-me! be surrounded with love!” But he dared not. How could he dare?
-
-Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night.
-She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or
-burdens; but she went on: “The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will
-not tell me who my mother was; and I do not know if she is alive or not,
-or anything about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade me ever
-to ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper
-for me to know. But she never has.”
-
-How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never
-seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were
-to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to
-him, or repel her?
-
-“Have you never asked her again?” he said.
-
-Ramona looked up astonished. “No one ever disobeyed the Senora,” she
-said quickly.
-
-“I would!” exclaimed Alessandro.
-
-“You may think so,” said Ramona, “but you couldn't. When you tried, you
-would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once.”
-
-“What did he say?” asked Alessandro, breathless.
-
-“The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the
-time came, I would be told,” answered Ramona, sadly. “I don't see what
-they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?”
-
-“I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita,” replied
-Alessandro. “Many things that your people do, and still more that these
-Americans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what they mean.
-Perhaps they do not know who was your mother?”
-
-“I am sure they do,” answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words
-were wrung from her. “But let us talk about something else, Alessandro;
-not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your
-staying here.”
-
-“Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?” said
-Alessandro.
-
-“You know it would,” answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her
-voice, which Alessandro felt. “I do not see what we could any of us do
-without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go.”
-
-Alessandro's face glowed. “It must be as my father says, Senorita,” he
-said. “A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a
-letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to me, and asking
-him what I should do. My father is very old, Senorita, and I do not see
-how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years
-ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very
-lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope
-he will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to
-do for the village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more
-than get what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see
-them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all
-around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big
-fence built around our land, so as to show where it is; but the people
-cannot take much time to work on the fence; they need all their time to
-work for themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live
-now, Senorita. Were you ever in Temecula?”
-
-“No,” said Ramona. “Is it a large town?”
-
-Alessandro sighed. “Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a little
-village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those are built
-only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall
-around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do, before
-we built the fence round the village.”
-
-“How many people are there in the village?” asked Ramona.
-
-“Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them are away
-most of the time. They must go where they can get work; they are
-hired by the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or to go as
-shepherds; and some of them take their wives and children with them. I
-do not believe the Senorita has ever seen any very poor people.”
-
-“Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor
-people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week.”
-
-“Indians?” said Alessandro.
-
-Ramona colored. “Yes,” she said, “some of them were, but not like your
-men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could
-not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition.”
-
-“That is the trouble,” said Alessandro, “with so many of them; it is
-with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father
-gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives
-them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it.
-There is only one other man in our village who can read and write,
-besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time
-begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But they say they
-have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see
-everybody has troubles, Senorita.”
-
-Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her.
-Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and
-personal matters.
-
-“Ah, but these are real troubles,” she said. “I do not think mine were
-real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people,
-Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could
-I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to
-teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I
-wish I could teach your people. Have you any relatives there
-besides your father? Is there any one in the village that you--love,
-Alessandro?”
-
-Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe
-the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question.
-
-“Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters,
-all of my father's people,” he said; “and I am unhappy about them all
-the time.”
-
-During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of
-thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said
-about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held
-to Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared
-his father would not let him remain away from home for any length of
-time. At the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking
-a sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, “Alessandro, I am afraid
-your father will not give his consent to your staying here.”
-
-“So am I, Senorita,” he replied sadly.
-
-“And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course,” she
-said.
-
-“How could I, Senorita?”
-
-“No,” she said, “it would not be right;” but as she said these words,
-the tears filled her eyes.
-
-Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. “Senorita!
-Senorita Ramona!” he cried, “tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita,
-then you will not be angry if I say that I love you!” and Alessandro
-trembled with the terror and delight of having said the words.
-
-Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the
-words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,--“I know
-that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!” Yes, this was
-what the Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, “But you,
-Senorita, you do not--you could not--” “Yes, Alessandro, I do--I love
-you!” in the same clear, firm whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's
-arms were around Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than
-saying, “O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you
-are mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!” But he was
-kissing her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, “Yes,
-Alessandro, I do mean it; I will go with you,” clung to him with her
-hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, “I will go with you, I love
-you.” And then, just then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry
-of amazement, and there she stood, no more than an arm's-length away,
-looking at them with her indignant, terrible eyes.
-
-What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he
-crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions
-did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened
-for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness
-deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in
-the Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room,
-soon put out,--evidently no supper going on there. Only from under
-Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and creeping close to the
-veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking,--the Senora's and
-Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her
-window; it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound.
-Where was she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution
-and infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going
-to her window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own
-responsibility. He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his
-love made a sign. Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his
-veranda bed, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was near
-midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother
-came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his
-mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him good-night, and went into her
-own room.
-
-It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the
-veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful.
-But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised
-when, a few minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice
-through the vines, “Senor Felipe?”
-
-“Hush, Alessandro,” whispered Felipe. “Do not make a sound. To-morrow
-morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not
-safe to talk here.”
-
-“Where is the Senorita?” Alessandro breathed rather than said.
-
-“In her room,” answered Felipe.
-
-“Well?” said Alessandro.
-
-“Yes,” said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro
-had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not
-all; one other thing comforted him,--the notes of two wood-doves, that
-at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the
-call and the answer, “Love?” “Here.” “Love?” “Here,”--and long intervals
-of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing they
-told.
-
-“That is what my Ramona is like,” thought he, “the gentle wood-dove. If
-she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove.”
-
-
-
-
-XI
-
-WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After
-closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about
-Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the
-evening with Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind.
-But Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his
-night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover,
-she was not clear in her own mind what she wished to have done about
-Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent away to the nuns, which was the
-only thing the Senora could think of as yet, there would be no reason
-for discharging Alessandro. And with him the Senora was by no means
-ready to part, though in her first anger she had been ready to dismiss
-him on the spot. As she pursued her reflections, the whole situation
-cleared itself in her mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the
-plottings and plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula
-no allowance for a human element which he cannot control.
-
-Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a
-servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands
-of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect
-her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her
-sister's written instructions had provided for the possibility of just
-such a contingency. Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a
-life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box,
-battered and rusty with age, and set it on the bed. The key turned with
-difficulty in the lock. It was many years since the Senora had opened
-this box. No one but herself knew of its existence. There had been many
-times in the history of the Moreno house when the price of the contents
-of that box would have averted loss and misfortune; but the Senora no
-more thought of touching the treasure than if it had been guarded by
-angels with fiery swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in
-the dim light of the one candle,--rubies, emeralds, pearls, and yellow
-diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. “Fine dowry,
-truly, for a creature like this!” she said. “Well I knew in the
-beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, base born, she has
-but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be grateful
-that my own son was too pure to be her prey!” “To be given to my adopted
-daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,”--so the instructions
-ran,--“if she weds worthily and with your approval. Should such a
-misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she should prove
-unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of value, shall
-be the property of the Church.”
-
-“No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves
-unworthy,” thought the Senora, bitterly; “but the Church is the place
-for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of
-disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had at first intended to
-give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it
-with its Indian mother!” and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The
-paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked,
-her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up,
-read it again, with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of
-her sister's love for the little child; no relenting. “Unworthy!” Yes,
-that was a mild word to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled;
-and when the girl was once out of the house, the Senora would breathe
-easier. She and Felipe would lead their lives together, and Felipe would
-wed some day. Was there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to
-wed? But he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices,
-and Ramona would be forgotten.
-
-The Senora did not know how late it was. “I will tell her to-night,” she
-said. “I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!”
-
-It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which
-made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her
-to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them
-to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she
-opened the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle
-high up; no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the
-window. It was open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. “She
-has run off with Alessandro,” she thought, “What horrible disgrace.”
- Standing motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other
-side of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had
-melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward
-Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet
-of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left hand was under
-her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the base of the statue. She
-was sound asleep. Her face was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was
-full of significance. Even helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken
-refuge in sanctuary. This thought had been distinct in the girl's mind
-when she found herself, spite of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy.
-“She won't dare to hurt me at the Virgin's feet,” she had said; “and
-the window is open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will
-watch.” And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep.
-
-It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from
-being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments
-looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful
-suspicions, she noted what she had never before thought of, that
-Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe, had had close access
-to Ramona's window. “Shameful creature!” she repeated to herself. “And
-she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!” and
-she turned away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a
-table. Then, with a sudden and still more curious mingling of justness
-in her wrath, she returned, and lifting the coverlet from the bed,
-spread it over Ramona, covering her carefully from head to foot. Then
-she went out and again locked the door.
-
-Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. “Thank
-God, the poor child is asleep!” he said; “and my poor dear mother feared
-to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!”
- And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy
-sleep, when his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of
-the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready;
-and no sooner did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her
-voice, than he struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour,
-prowling, listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her
-jealousy and her fears,--even Margarita delayed not to unite; and
-Felipe, too, sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded
-and melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of
-being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of
-them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro
-most of all.
-
-“The saints be praised,” said Alessandro. “There is my wood-dove's
-voice. She can sing!” And, “Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I
-am glad he loves me,” said Ramona.
-
-“To hear those two voices.” said the Senora; “would one suppose they
-could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think.”
-
-As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where
-Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to
-Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.
-
-Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread
-and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's
-own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the
-previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out;
-and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be
-known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants
-to gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very
-hungry. Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down
-to wait. For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much
-try. Ramona had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule.
-She felt little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going
-away presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom
-lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born
-emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door,
-and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the
-room. This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it
-had done before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed
-to her like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the
-whole tone and manner of her address.
-
-Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room,
-she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, “What have you to say for
-yourself?”
-
-Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the
-same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to
-stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted.
-
-“Senora,” she said slowly, “I tried to tell you last night, but you
-would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so
-angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were
-not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go
-away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure
-you will be a great deal happier when I am away;” and Ramona looked
-wistfully, with no shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken
-face. “You have been very good to do so much for a girl you did not
-love. Thank you for the bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away
-with Alessandro to-day. I do not know what he will wish. We had only
-just that minute spoken of being married, when you found us last night.”
-
-The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say
-these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the
-first sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed,
-followed a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much
-scorn, but a bitterer anger. “Marry! Marry that Indian!” she cried, as
-soon as she found voice. “You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I
-will never permit it.”
-
-Ramona looked anxiously at her. “I have never disobeyed you, Senora,”
- she said, “but this is different from all other things; you are not my
-mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro.”
-
-The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.
-
-“No,” she said icily, “I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's
-place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to
-me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to
-speak again of marrying this Indian.”
-
-The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise
-and cost, of what stuff this girl was made,--this girl, who had
-for fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and
-uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking
-swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself
-startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona
-said, in a louder, firmer voice: “Senora Moreno, you may forbid me
-as much as you please. The whole world cannot keep me from marrying
-Alessandro. I love him. I have promised, and I shall keep my word.” And
-with her young lithe arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown
-back, Ramona flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud defiance.
-It was the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself
-buoyed up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from her
-like a garment thrown off.
-
-“Pshaw!” said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her
-wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, “you talk like
-a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow,
-if I choose?”
-
-“No, you cannot!” replied Ramona.
-
-“Who, then, is to hinder me.” said the Senora, insolently.
-
-“Alessandro!” answered Ramona, proudly.
-
-“Alessandro!” the Senora sneered. “Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on
-whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!”
-
-The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. “You would never
-dare!” she cried; “Felipe would not permit it!” A most unwise retort for
-Ramona.
-
-“Felipe!” cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. “How dare you pronounce
-his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to
-you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the
-truth.”
-
-“You are mistaken, Senora,” answered Ramona, more gently. “Felipe is
-Alessandro's friend, and--mine,” she added, after a second's pause.
-
-“So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of
-Moreno!” cried the Senora. “We will see! we will see! Follow me,
-Senorita Ramona!” And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out,
-looking back over her shoulder.
-
-“Follow me!” she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona hesitated; and
-Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into
-the veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's room,--the
-Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual
-gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes
-bent on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita,
-standing just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance.
-
-“She would help the Senora against me in anything,” thought Ramona; and
-she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had
-not stirred.
-
-The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the
-curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every
-movement.
-
-“Sit down in that chair,” said the Senora, pointing to one near the
-fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona.
-
-“I would rather stand, Senora,” she said.
-
-“Do as I bid you.” said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona obeyed.
-It was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, her senses
-seemed leaving her. She leaned her head against the back and closed
-her eyes. The room swam. She was roused by the Senora's strong
-smelling-salts held for her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the
-Senora's iciest voice: “The Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she
-did a few moments back!”
-
-Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her,
-in this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror
-had got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her
-face, took hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half
-around, brought into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the
-keyhole, which she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had
-read of persons who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and
-starved to death. With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all
-unaware of her terror, was prolonging it and intensifying it by her
-every act. First she took out the small iron box, and set it on a table.
-Then, kneeling, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a large
-leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and scraping along the
-floor, till it stood in front of Ramona. All this time she spoke no
-word, and the cruel expression of her countenance deepened each moment.
-The fiends had possession of the Senora Moreno this morning, and no
-mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might have indeed been fearful, at
-being locked up alone with a woman who looked like that.
-
-Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place.
-Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into
-the wall closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old
-battered boxes. What could it all mean?
-
-“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and
-seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, “I will now
-explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro.”
-
-At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,--not her old self,
-her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his name,
-even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away.
-She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was
-young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap
-through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro.
-
-“I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno,” she said, in a
-tone as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own.
-
-The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, “Do not interrupt
-me again. I have much to tell you;” and opening the box, she lifted out
-and placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written
-paper lay at the bottom of the box.
-
-“Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?” she asked, holding it up.
-Ramona bowed her head. “This was written by my sister, the Senora
-Ortegna, who adopted you and gave you her name. These were her final
-instructions to me, in regard to the disposition to be made of the
-property she left to you.”
-
-Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while
-the Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder,
-fear of her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth,
-swept over her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she
-listened. She forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her
-eyes never left the Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the
-Senora said sternly, “You see, now, that my sister left to me the entire
-disposition of everything belonging to you.”
-
-“But it hasn't said who was my mother,” cried Ramona. “Is that all there
-is in the paper?”
-
-The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing
-that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her
-forever?
-
-“Who was your mother?” she exclaimed, scornfully, “There was no need to
-write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!”
-
-At the word “Indian,” Ramona gave a low cry.
-
-The Senora misunderstood it. “Ay,” she said, “a low, common Indian. I
-told my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in your veins would
-show some day; and now it has come true.”
-
-Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. “Yes, Senora Moreno,”
- she said, springing to her feet; “the Indian blood in my veins shows
-to-day. I understand many things I never understood before. Was it
-because I was an Indian that you have always hated me?”
-
-“You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you,” interrupted the
-Senora.
-
-Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. “And if
-I am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am
-glad I am an Indian! I am of his people. He will be glad!” The words
-poured like a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer
-and closer to the Senora. “You are a cruel woman,” she said. “I did not
-know it before; but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no
-reason to treat me so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me
-with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my mother alive'? Where
-does she live? Tell me; and I will go to her to-day. Tell me! She will
-be glad that Alessandro loves me!”
-
-It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora
-answered: “I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is
-still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,--some low, vicious
-creature, that your father married when he was out of his senses, as you
-are now, when you talk of marrying Alessandro!”
-
-“He married her, then?” asked Ramona, with emphasis. “How know you that,
-Senora Moreno?”
-
-“He told my sister so,” replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the
-girl even this much of consolation.
-
-“What was his name?” asked Ramona.
-
-“Phail; Angus Phail,” the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found
-herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she
-chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew
-how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of
-the one in authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate
-question after question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened
-it. With unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many
-years had rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces,
-gowns of satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the
-chairs, it was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's
-eyes rested on them dreamily.
-
-“Did my adopted mother wear all these?” she asked, lifting in her hand a
-fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration.
-
-Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the
-value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by
-it.
-
-“All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if
-you marry worthily, with my permission,” said the Senora, in a voice
-a shade less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. “Did you
-understand what I read you?”
-
-The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson
-silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the
-jewel-box.
-
-“There are pearls in that,” said the Senora; “that came with the things
-your father sent to my sister when he died.”
-
-Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was
-old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the
-last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. “This was my father's,
-then.” she said.
-
-“Yes,” said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a new
-baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all which had
-been her father's property. “They were your father's, and all these
-rubies, and these yellow diamonds;” and she pushed the tray towards her.
-
-Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully
-above the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance
-came from the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right
-and left, making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their
-snowy whiteness.
-
-“I will keep this handkerchief,” she said, thrusting it as she spoke,
-by a swift resolute movement into her bosom. “I am very glad to have one
-thing that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can give to
-the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I shall marry
-Alessandro;” and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had
-thrust the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her
-chair.
-
-Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust,
-There could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under
-which she had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the
-fact that she had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself
-what Father Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis.
-Her religion and the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from
-her in her sudden wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that
-she became conscious of this.
-
-“Father Salvierderra?” she stammered; “he has nothing to do with it.”
-
-But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and
-followed up her advantage. “Father Salvierderra has to do with
-everything,” she said boldly. “He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid
-me to marry him, and if he did--” Ramona stopped. She also was smitten
-with a sudden terror at the vista opening before her,--of a disobedience
-to Father Salvierderra.
-
-“And if he did,” repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, “would you
-disobey him?”
-
-“Yes,” said Ramona.
-
-“I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say,” retorted the Senora,
-sarcastically, “that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any
-commands on you, to be thus disobeyed.”
-
-Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other
-of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she
-loved the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His
-displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His
-would give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror.
-
-Clasping her hands, she said, “Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that
-to the Father!”
-
-“It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family,”
- answered the Senora, chillingly. “He will agree with me, that if you
-persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I
-shall tell him all;” and she began putting the trays back in the box.
-
-“You will not tell him as it really is, Senora,” persisted Ramona. “I
-will tell him myself.”
-
-“You shall not see him! I will take care of that!” cried the Senora, so
-vindictively that Ramona shuddered.
-
-“I will give you one more chance,” said the Senora, pausing in the
-act of folding up one of the damask gowns. “Will you obey me? Will you
-promise to have nothing more to do with this Indian?”
-
-“Never, Senora,” replied Ramona; “never!”
-
-“Then the consequences be on your own head,” cried the Senora. “Go to
-your room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe.
-Do you hear?”
-
-Ramona bowed her head. “I hear,” she said; and gliding out of the room,
-closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her room, sped like
-a hunted creature down the veranda steps, across the garden, calling in
-a low tone, “Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?”
-
-
-
-
-XII
-
-THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that
-southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to
-Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a
-terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom,
-was wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had
-selected it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro.
-
-When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she
-halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she
-entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of
-some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the
-path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute
-for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. “If the saints would only
-tell me where he is!” she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there,
-fearing each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune
-was favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she
-saw Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. “Oh, Felipe,
-Felipe!” she began.
-
-“Yes, dear, I know it all,” interrupted Felipe; “Alessandro has told
-me.”
-
-“She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe,” said Ramona, “but I could not
-bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?”
-
-“My mother forbade you to speak to me!” cried Felipe, in a tone of
-terror. “Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking,
-she will be even more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to
-me. I will do all that I can.”
-
-“But, Felipe,” began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress.
-
-“I know! I know!” said Felipe; “but you must not make my mother any more
-angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to
-your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?”
-
-“Yes,” sobbed Ramona, “but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help
-us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent,
-will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this
-minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now.”
-
-Felipe's face was horror-stricken. “Shut you in the convent!” he gasped.
-“Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk
-to her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me
-talking with you now;” and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the
-terrace.
-
-Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she
-go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again,
-meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro?
-Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when
-she entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless
-weeping. If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's
-journey on his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from
-her each moment, she would have despaired indeed.
-
-This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him
-to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's
-face and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe
-was alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not
-conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked
-with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be
-out of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. “I will
-say that I sent you,” said Felipe, “so she cannot feel that you have
-committed any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time
-it will be all settled what you shall do.”
-
-It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not
-need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be
-foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be
-out of the question.
-
-“But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is
-for her sake I go?” the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's
-eyes as if he would read his inmost soul.
-
-“I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will,” replied Felipe; and he held his
-hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. “You may trust me to
-do all I can do for Ramona and for you.”
-
-“God bless you, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight
-trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved.
-
-“He's a noble fellow,” said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro
-leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all
-night,--“a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who
-would have been manlier or franker than he has been in this whole
-business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a
-noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to be done!”
-
-Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever
-arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming
-now. He was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted
-whether he could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in
-the convent terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had
-she power to do that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she
-had, or she would not have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted
-at the cruel injustice of the idea.
-
-“As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!” he said.
-“I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can
-make my mother feel so!” And Felipe paced back and forth till the sun
-was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek
-shelter; then he threw himself down under the willows. He dreaded to
-go into the house. His instinctive shrinking from the disagreeable, his
-disposition to put off till another time, held him back, hour by hour.
-The longer he thought the situation over, the less he knew how to broach
-the subject to his mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would
-be wise for him to broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called.
-It was Margarita, who had been sent to call him to dinner. “Good
-heavens! dinner already!” he cried, springing to his feet.
-
-“Yes, Senor,” replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen
-him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down
-the river road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look,
-and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door together soon after
-breakfast. Margarita could have given a tolerably connected account of
-all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours to the chief
-actors in this tragedy which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno
-household. Not supposed to know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and
-her every pulse was beating high with excited conjecture and wonder as
-to what would come next.
-
-Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,--Ramona absent, the fiction of
-her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the
-Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's
-face, she thought to herself, “Ramona has spoken to him. When and how
-did she do it?” For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left
-her presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her
-own room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the
-morning on the veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How,
-when, and where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer
-the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to
-be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very
-eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not only against
-her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out
-towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise
-retort, “Felipe would not let you!” What had Felipe done or said to make
-the girl so sure that he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it
-come to this, that she, the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own
-house by children and servants!
-
-It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as
-she rose from the dinner-table, “My son, I would like to have some
-conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure.”
-
-“Certainly, mother,” said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her
-having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and
-walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her
-waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed
-him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm,
-and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said: “This is the most fitting
-way, my son. I must lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age
-is telling on me fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in
-the last year?”
-
-“No, madre mia,” replied Felipe, “indeed I do not. I see not that you
-have changed in the last ten years.” And he was honest in this. His
-eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of
-reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled
-by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him.
-
-The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: “That must be because you so
-love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles
-tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last
-twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged frightfully;” and she
-looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where
-poor Ramona had swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing
-before her, gazing, with a tender expression, upon her features, but
-saying nothing.
-
-“I see that Ramona has told you all!” she continued, her voice hardening
-as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence!
-
-“No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this
-morning, early,” Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the
-conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. “He came and spoke to
-me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning,
-and then I would hear all he had to say.”
-
-“Ah!” said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she
-asked, “And what did he say?”
-
-“He told me all that had happened.”
-
-“All!” said the Senora, sneeringly. “Do you suppose that he told you
-all?”
-
-“He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight,” said Felipe,
-“and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought
-you would prefer not to see him again.”
-
-“Ah!” said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so
-promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. “Ah, I
-did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once
-or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might
-devise some measures by which he could be retained on the estate.”
-
-Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the
-relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming?
-In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he
-did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure
-that retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any
-good to Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the
-first glimpse of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, “Ah,
-dear mother, if that could only be done, all would be well;” and, never
-noting the expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath,
-he poured out all he thought and felt on the subject.
-
-“That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and
-Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and
-the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he
-would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole
-estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That
-would give them a good living here with us.”
-
-“Enough!” cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears
-like a voice from some other world,--so hollow, so strange. He stopped
-speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first words
-he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the floor,--a habit of
-hers when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes
-now, fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not
-all his filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as
-scornful as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored.
-
-“Why do you look at me like that, mother?” he exclaimed. “What have I
-done?”
-
-The Senora waved her hand imperiously. “Enough!” she reiterated. “Do not
-say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;” and she fixed her eyes
-on the floor again.
-
-Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than
-he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for
-the first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl
-like Ramona.
-
-“Poor little one!” he thought. “If my mother looked at her as she did at
-me just now, I wonder she did not die.”
-
-A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona
-was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the
-cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time
-in his whole life, angered her beyond her control.
-
-“As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature,” she
-thought bitterly to herself, “without her coming between me and Felipe!”
-
-But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh
-lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the
-rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate
-anger at his words.
-
-When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe
-to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said
-in trembling tones: “Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything
-could make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us
-too dear. She must leave the house.”
-
-Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A
-bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him
-tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied:
-“I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing
-wrong in her loving Alessandro.”
-
-“I found her in his arms!” exclaimed the Senora.
-
-“I know,” said Felipe; “Alessandro told me that he had just at that
-instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would
-marry him, just as you came up.”
-
-“Humph!” retorted the Senora; “do you think that Indian would have dared
-to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not
-conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to
-speak about marriage to her at all.”
-
-“Oh, mother! mother!” was all that Felipe could say to this. He was
-aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his
-mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. “Mother!” he repeated, in
-a tone which spoke volumes.
-
-“Ay,” she continued, “that is what I say. I see no reason why he
-hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small
-ceremony of marrying.”
-
-“Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would,
-mother,” said Felipe courageously; “you do him injustice.” He longed
-to add, “And Ramona too,” but he feared to make bad matters worse by
-pleading for her at present.
-
-“No, I do not,” said the Senora; “I do Alessandro full justice. I
-think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same
-temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has
-happened. It is all Ramona's fault.”
-
-Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely
-this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood,
-and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself
-around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear
-her thus wickedly accused.
-
-“Mother!” he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him
-in sudden astonishment. “Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very
-angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona.
-I have seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under
-her feet; and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it
-too! She has seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all
-her soul, just as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I
-am ever loved as well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think
-they ought to be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to
-the estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful
-in it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly natural.
-You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family;
-you know she is half Indian.” A scornful ejaculation from his mother
-interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne
-out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to
-stop, because if he did, his mother would speak; and already he felt
-a terror of what her next words might be. “I have often thought about
-Ramona's future, mother. You know a great many men would not want to
-marry her, just because she is half Indian. You, yourself, would never
-have given your consent to my marrying her, if I had wanted to.” Again
-an exclamation from the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn.
-But Felipe pressed on. “No, of course you would not, I always knew that;
-except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl
-never drew breath in this God's earth.” Felipe was reckless now; having
-entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon that lay within
-his reach; if one did not tell, another might. “You have never loved
-her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I don't think you
-have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how much kinder you
-were to me than to her, and I never could understand it. And you are
-unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've seen her and
-Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been
-with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the
-family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I
-thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever
-looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I
-don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not
-be willing to have my own sister do!” Here Felipe paused. He had made
-his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at
-the onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars.
-
-When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,--and even
-yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined his
-constitution,--the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said in
-a now composed tone: “You do not believe that Ramona has done anything
-that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be
-willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?”
-
-Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been
-speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her
-power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do.
-Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing
-could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards
-her; or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she
-arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her
-imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would
-be no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he
-determined the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate
-crisis.
-
-Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than
-the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her
-wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been
-for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook.
-How just and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly,
-with an expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. “Would
-you be willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?”
-
-Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give
-but one answer to this question. “No, mother,” he said, “I should not;
-but--”
-
-“Never mind buts,” interrupted his mother; “we have not got to those
-yet;” and she smiled on Felipe,--an affectionate smile, but it somehow
-gave him a feeling of dread. “Of course I knew you could make but one
-answer to my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her
-dead than married to any one of these Indians.”
-
-Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. “Not so,” he said.
-
-“Wait, dear!” exclaimed his mother. “One thing at a time, I see how full
-your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when
-listening just now to your eloquent defence of Ramona, Perhaps you
-may be right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not
-discuss those points.” It was here that the Senora had perceived some
-things that it would be out of her power to do. “We will not discuss
-those, because they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is
-our duty to do by Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on
-her worthiness or unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you
-to allow her to do what you would not allow your own sister to do?” The
-Senora paused for a second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled
-and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on,
-“You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?” And now the
-Senora waited for an answer.
-
-“No, mother,” came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. “I suppose not;
-but--”
-
-“I was sure my own son could make no other reply,” interrupted the
-Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to
-her questions. “Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona
-do anything which we would not let her do if she were really of our own
-blood. That is the way I have always looked at my obligation to her. My
-sister intended to rear her as her own daughter. She had given her her
-own name. When my sister died, she transferred to me all her right and
-responsibility in and for the child. You do not suppose that if your
-aunt had lived, she would have ever given her consent to her adopted
-daughter's marrying an Indian, do you?”
-
-Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe
-said, in a low tone, “No, I suppose she would not.”
-
-“Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only
-that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider
-disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust
-reposed in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who
-transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?”
-
-“Yes, mother,” said the unhappy Felipe.
-
-He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw
-somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out;
-in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was
-confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all
-had been said and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was
-evident that it would never be with his mother's consent. “Nor with mine
-either, openly, the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet
-I have promised Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck,
-I wish he had never set foot on the place!” said Felipe in his heart,
-growing unreasonable, and tired with the perplexity.
-
-The Senora continued: “I shall always blame myself bitterly for having
-failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with
-us a great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one
-thing and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's
-being in danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover,
-any more than of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any
-other of the herdsmen or laborers. I regret it more than words can
-express, and I do not know what we can do, now that it has happened.”
-
-“That's it, mother! That's it!” broke in Felipe. “You see, you see it is
-too late now.”
-
-The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. “I suppose you would
-really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a
-way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place,
-Of course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant
-for Ramona to stay here, and see him continually--at least for a time,
-until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived
-for him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do.” The Senora
-artfully interpolated, “What should you think, Felipe, of having her go
-back to the Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there.”
-
-The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly
-gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke
-again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had
-cried to him in the garden, “Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up
-in the convent, will you?” “Mother!” he cried, “you would never do that.
-You would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!”
-
-The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “Who spoke of shutting
-up?” she said. “Ramona has already been there at school. She might go
-again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is
-the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get
-over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?”
- And a third time the Senora paused for an answer.
-
-These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing
-in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when,
-withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still
-supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim
-flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as
-settled, much which had never been settled at all, were among the best
-weapons in the Senora's armory. They rarely failed her.
-
-“Advise!” cried Felipe, excitedly. “Advise! This is what I advise--to
-let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our
-obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward
-complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it.”
-
-“Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,” interrupted the
-Senora, sighing. “I don't quite see how you would face it.”
-
-“Well, I don't propose to face it,” continued Felipe, testily. “I don't
-propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go
-away with him, if she wants to.'
-
-“Without our consent?” said the Senora, gently.
-
-“Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have
-stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying
-her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will
-go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how
-he loves her. Let her go!”
-
-“Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?”
- asked the Senora, earnestly. “Run away and marry him, spite of our
-refusing to consent to the marriage?”
-
-“I do,” said Felipe.
-
-“Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do,
-is to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she
-pleases?”
-
-“That's just what I do think, mother,” replied Felipe, his heart growing
-lighter at her words. “That's just what I do think. We can't prevent
-it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they
-like.”
-
-“Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then,” said the Senora. “They
-could not stay here.”
-
-“I don't see why!” said Felipe, anxiously.
-
-“You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a
-stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't
-you see that would be so?”
-
-Felipe's eyes fell. “Then I suppose they couldn't be married here,
-either,” he said.
-
-“What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily
-approved of, my son?”
-
-“True, mother;” and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. “But then
-we force them to run away!”
-
-“Oh, no.” said the Senora, icily. “If they go, they will go of their
-own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If
-they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for
-not having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use
-to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done.”
-
-Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed
-his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication,
-network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did
-not see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother;
-he did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to
-Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed.
-
-The Senora studied his face. “You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,”
- she said tenderly. “As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate
-state of affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?”
-
-“No,” said Felipe, bitterly. “I can't, that's the worst of it. It is
-just turning Ramona out of the house, that's all.”
-
-“Felipe! Felipe!” exclaimed the Senora, “how unjust you are to yourself!
-You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a
-home here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as
-she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is
-it our fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to
-what is just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You
-know I promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have
-always felt that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died.
-Ramona has a home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it.
-It is not just, Felipe, to say that we turn her out;” and tears stood in
-the Senora's eyes.
-
-“Forgive me, dear mother,” cried the unhappy Felipe. “Forgive me for
-adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable
-business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it
-is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with.”
-
-“Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,” replied the Senora. “If
-it were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares
-and burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I
-feel myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say,
-Felipe, I wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send
-for Ramona at once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt
-in great anxiety; we will see her here.”
-
-Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew
-not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion.
-
-Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way,
-unlocked Ramona's door, and said: “Ramona, be so good as to come to my
-room. Felipe and I have something to say to you.”
-
-Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, “Felipe and I,” boded no
-good.
-
-“The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,” thought
-Ramona. “Oh, what will become of me!” and she stole a reproachful,
-imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her;
-but the reassurance did not last long.
-
-“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had
-no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed
-to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold
-and distant they sounded,--as the Senora might speak to an intruding
-stranger.
-
-“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” she said, “my son and I have been discussing
-what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and humiliating position
-in which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of
-course you know--or you ought to know--that it is utterly impossible
-for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be
-false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that.”
-
-Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no
-sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with
-downcast eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face,
-despair seized her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where
-was Alessandro! Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,--a cry that
-cut Felipe to the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of
-Ramona's suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he
-had realized. It would have taken very little, at such moments as these,
-to have made Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her
-side, folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It
-took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust
-to Ramona's understanding him later.
-
-Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's
-sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: “My son
-tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that
-you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in
-thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra
-forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your
-determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the
-keeping of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted
-you as her child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some
-means of escape, and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal
-on the family. Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to
-bring you to reason in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I
-wish to impress it upon you that my son, as head of this house, and I,
-as my sister's representative, consider you a member of our own family.
-So long as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it
-always has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and
-us by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves.”
-
-The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the
-Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl
-was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and
-her perceptions were sharpened by love.
-
-“Have you anything to say to me or to my son?” asked the Senora.
-
-“No, Senora,” replied Ramona; “I do not think of anything more to say
-than I said this morning. Yes,” she added, “there is. Perhaps I shall
-not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for
-the home you have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe,” she
-continued, turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up
-affection and sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,--“you too, dear
-Felipe. You have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as
-long as I live;” and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took
-them in his, and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted
-him. She did not intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate
-familiarity between her son and Ramona.
-
-“Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?” she said. “Is
-it your purpose to go at once?”
-
-“I do not know, Senora,” stammered Ramona; “I have not seen Alessandro;
-I have not heard--” And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who
-answered compassionately,--
-
-“Alessandro has gone.”
-
-“Gone!” shrieked Ramona. “Gone! not gone, Felipe!”
-
-“Only for four days,” replied Felipe. “To Temecula. I thought it would
-be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back
-immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow.”
-
-“Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with
-him? Oh, why, why did he go?” cried Ramona.
-
-“He went because my son told him to go,” broke in the Senora, impatient
-of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's
-expressive features. “My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him
-would be more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away,
-and Alessandro obeyed.”
-
-Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe,
-and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the
-streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, “You
-have been cruel; God will punish you!” and without waiting to see what
-effect her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she
-walked swiftly out of the room.
-
-“You see,” said the Senora, “you see she defies us.”
-
-“She is desperate,” said Felipe. “I am sorry I sent Alessandro away.”
-
-“No, my son,” replied the Senora, “you were wise, as you always are.
-It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in
-solitude.”
-
-“You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?” cried Felipe.
-
-The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him.
-“You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we
-could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any way? To wash our
-hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?”
-
-“Yes, yes,” said the baffled Felipe; “that was what I said. But,
-mother--” He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say.
-
-The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry.
-
-“What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to
-say or do?” she asked.
-
-“What is it you are going to do, mother?” said Felipe. “I don't seem to
-understand what you are going to do.”
-
-“Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would
-be thrown away. I shall do nothing,” replied the Senora. “Nothing
-whatever.”
-
-“Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always
-has been?” said Felipe.
-
-The Senora smiled sadly. “Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A
-girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and
-me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the
-Moreno and the Ortegna name,--we can't feel exactly the same towards her
-as we did before, can we?”
-
-Felipe made an impatient gesture. “No, of course not. But I mean, is
-everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?”
-
-“I supposed so,” said the Senora. “Was not that your idea? We must try
-to have it so, I think. Do not you?”
-
-“Yes,” groaned Felipe, “if we can!”
-
-
-
-
-XIII
-
-THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter
-of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation
-with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from
-the thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the
-convent, Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna
-jewels turned into the treasury of the Church,--this was the plan she
-had determined on in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not
-to be overseer on the place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she
-would be married to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and
-the Ortegna jewels,--well, that was a thing to be decided in the future;
-that should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora
-was, she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question
-wholly into her own hands.
-
-One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He
-had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in
-sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be
-sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not
-impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so,
-she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest.
-Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret
-from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's
-death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her
-adopted child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father
-came again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it.
-The treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all
-these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went
-away with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply
-stating the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further
-questions must wait for decision until they met.
-
-And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her
-tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial
-failure of her plans.
-
-There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It
-has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,--a system so ingenious
-that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still
-find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at
-reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes
-vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt;
-and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride
-carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field
-unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor
-in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the
-second; and so on till death. It is impossible not to have a certain
-sort of admiration for this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are
-to all who come in their way; but they are equally cruel to themselves,
-when pride demands the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a
-forlorn hope, on the earth, when all other motives have died out of
-men's breasts; has won many a crown, which has not been called by its
-true name.
-
-Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of
-the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture
-soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual
-occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do
-“nothing” in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that
-meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also
-would do “nothing;” but her mind still misgave her about Felipe.
-Unpityingly she had led him on, and entangled him in his own words,
-step by step, till she had brought him to the position she wished him to
-take. Ostensibly, his position and hers were one, their action a unit;
-all the same, she did not deceive herself as to his real feeling about
-the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question
-of family pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested
-it, and which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press
-it,--barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry Ramona
-and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost in Felipe's
-mind again when he was removed from the pressure of her influence.
-Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him on the subject again,
-or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would be best attained
-by taking and keeping the ground that the question of their
-non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic
-should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await
-Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to
-inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now.
-
-The details of the “nothing” she proposed to do, slowly arranged
-themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's
-position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no
-watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down
-with them, as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's
-sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any provocation to Ramona
-to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment
-of every hour, that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not
-of them; that she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it.
-How this was to be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but
-she knew very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this
-would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did
-she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro,
-that she might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the
-offence she would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did
-perceive this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,--the Senora
-grew almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated
-this contingency,--if she did thus humble herself and return to her
-rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her,
-and would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would
-take her to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more
-of the world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come
-about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see
-that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if
-Ramona herself would behave properly.
-
-Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper,
-and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was
-drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it
-both in her voice and look.
-
-The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done
-so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the
-turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to
-Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought;
-but before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's
-eye and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The
-emotion of half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words
-changed quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and
-she said to herself: “That's the way she is going to break me down, she
-thinks! But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the
-minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him.” This train of thought
-in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and
-hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of
-surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice.
-
-Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had
-overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and
-Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion
-as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped
-being caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the
-passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out,
-after her final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had
-distinctly heard: “God will punish you.”
-
-“Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?” ejaculated
-Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not
-even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following Ramona,
-saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she
-called, “How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of
-the day, Margarita?”
-
-It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick
-lie which she instantaneously told. “There was early breakfast, Senora,
-to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother
-was not up, so I had it to cook.”
-
-As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She
-changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering
-about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the
-sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as
-he rode past,--only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he
-had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had
-at Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been
-Margarita's motive for telling this lie?
-
-But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long
-with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing
-which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the
-Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there
-was added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of
-jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants
-of late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to
-his being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family.
-
-While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music,
-there was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and
-went as a physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should
-this freedom and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen
-mutterings of this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers
-and servants were gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being
-absent from the group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming
-from the south veranda, where the family sat.
-
-“It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,”
- Juan Canito would grumble; “but the lad's chary enough of his bow on
-this side the house.”
-
-“Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!” Margarita would reply;
-“'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not
-always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides
-fiddling!” and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an
-expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to
-draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would
-she answer. She knew better than to slander the Senorita Ramona, or to
-say a word even reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman
-there would have borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came
-among them as a toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her
-now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,--nursed
-them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days.
-To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what
-she suspected; and old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such
-words, had terrified Margarita into the solemnest of promises never,
-under any circumstances whatever, to say such things to any other member
-of the family. Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed
-that Margarita's jealousy had imagined all.
-
-“And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour,
-and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you
-blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!”
-
-When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had
-just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into
-her room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her
-with Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in
-sheer mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed
-Margarita's ears for telling her.
-
-“I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again!
-Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof,
-and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of
-your senses, child!” she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the
-room.
-
-“You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not,” retorted Margarita,
-and ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was
-shut, and the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old Marda had
-herself crept softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard
-Ramona sobbing as if her heart would break. Then she knew that what
-Margarita had said must be true, and her faithful soul was in sore
-straits what to think. The Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever
-happened, it was not that! There was some horrible mistake somewhere.
-Kneeling at the keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, “Oh, my
-lamb, what is it?” But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too
-great of remaining; so scrambling up with difficulty from her rheumatic
-knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in the dark
-as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence, crosser than ever
-to her daughter. All the next day she watched for herself, and could
-not but see that all appearances bore out Margarita's statements.
-Alessandro's sudden departure had been a tremendous corroboration of the
-story. Not one of the men had had an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo,
-both alike astonished; no word left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe
-had said carelessly to Juan Can, after breakfast: “You'll have to look
-after things yourself for a few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to
-Temecula.”
-
-“For a few days!” exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was
-repeated to her. “That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here
-again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south veranda,
-I wager you.”
-
-But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard,
-as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, “Are
-you ready for supper, Ramona?” and Ramona was seen to come out and walk
-by the Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,--but then
-that was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the
-Senora's presence,--when Marda, standing in the court-yard, feigning to
-be feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways,
-saw this, she was relieved, and thought: “It's only a dispute there has
-been. There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our
-affair. All is settled now.”
-
-And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all
-coming in as usual,--the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,--no change, even to
-her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had
-been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than
-once since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she
-remembered.
-
-But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its
-complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results
-attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure
-put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of
-comparison in matter of blindness,--“blind as a bat,” for instance. It
-would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom
-a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance
-and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the
-bosoms of their families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and
-heal, strength falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether,
-every day, without being noted by the closest lookers-on.
-
-Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a
-storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed
-the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and
-reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any
-serious disaster could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered
-about in his usual fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in
-the veranda, dozing. The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed
-her birds, spoke to every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair
-with her hands folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied
-herself with her usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers
-before all the Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had
-been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel.
-It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she
-held up the frame in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate
-tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling
-of interest and hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it,
-often saying to herself, “She won't care much for it, beautiful as it
-is, just because I did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when
-he sees it.”
-
-Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: “She will
-never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to
-Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him.
-I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it
-would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me.” But as she
-thought these things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had
-settled on Ramona. “Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything
-for four days!” these words were coming and going in her mind like
-refrains of songs which haunt one's memory and will not be still. She
-saw that Felipe looked anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring
-looks always with a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did
-not intend that she and Felipe should have any private conversation;
-but that did not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be
-said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for
-the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of the
-Senora's anger should have spent itself.
-
-After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone,
-had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come
-back prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know;
-but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the
-Senora good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far
-Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It
-was a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way:
-no wedding--no wedding clothes--no friends--to go unmarried, and journey
-to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; “but it is not my
-fault,” said Ramona to herself; “it is hers. She drives me to do it. If
-it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly
-come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could go to
-him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride so
-far; we could do it in two days.” The more Ramona thought of this, the
-more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. “He will be on
-our side, I know he will,” she thought. “He always liked Alessandro, and
-he loves me.”
-
-It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's
-mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too
-full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's
-habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up
-she had accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now
-she accepted her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of
-things, and not to be altered.
-
-During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds
-of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that
-there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting
-on the veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was
-deceived by her calmness, and wondered what it meant,--if it could be
-that she was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible,
-and designated as coming “to her senses.” Even Felipe did not know the
-steadfast fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond
-had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of
-what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part
-of their intercourse with each other; nothing could have been farther
-removed from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis
-of incident, or marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's
-imaginations of love were essential to the fulness of its growth. This
-is a common mistake on the part of those who have never felt love's true
-bonds. Once in those chains, one perceives that they are not of the sort
-full forged in a day. They are made as the great iron cables are made,
-on which bridges are swung across the widest water-channels,--not of
-single huge rods, or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look
-at, but of myriads of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so
-frail, it would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds,
-hundreds of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made
-the mighty cables, which do not any more swerve from their place in the
-air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread of two
-cities, than the solid earth swerves under the same ceaseless weight and
-jar. Such cables do not break.
-
-Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved
-Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden
-adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply
-a response; but now it was as strong a love as his,--as strong, and as
-unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air
-to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent
-seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny
-called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy
-with which Alessandro would hear this,--the joy and the surprise. She
-imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in
-which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best;
-as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would
-tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of
-greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment then.
-She would wait till they were far away, till they were alone, in the
-wilderness; and then she would turn to him, and say, “Alessandro, my
-people are your people!” Or she would wait, and keep her secret until
-she had reached Temecula, and they had begun their life there, and
-Alessandro had been astonished to see how readily and kindly she took
-to all the ways of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed
-some such emotion, she would quietly say, “But I too am an Indian,
-Alessandro!”
-
-Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat
-with happiness as she dreamed them.
-
-
-
-
-XIV
-
-THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word
-had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the
-Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel
-a thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought
-this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona.
-She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that
-he had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have
-been disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning
-or expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest,
-of which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance.
-
-Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through
-her window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with
-wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance
-to hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed
-make bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first
-sound of his footsteps on the veranda floor, “My son, are you ill? Can I
-do anything?” came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at
-all. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan
-again; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with
-sheer impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the
-bed, taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The
-Senora sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It
-was very hot; a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been
-blowing all day, and every living creature was more or less prostrated
-by it.
-
-As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking
-out a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly
-writing. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her
-that it was for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was
-asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his
-hand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly
-watching him; the sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat
-up instantly, and gazed about her with that indescribable expression
-peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they
-have. “Have I been asleep?” she asked.
-
-“About one minute, mother,” answered Felipe, who was leaning, as he
-spoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him.
-Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, he
-said, “This heat is intolerable!” Then he sauntered leisurely down the
-veranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench
-under the trellis there.
-
-The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with
-fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the
-Senora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But
-fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing
-off again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona.
-As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora
-opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was
-going into the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe.
-
-“Are you going to your room, Ramona?” said the Senor.
-
-“I was,” replied Ramona, alarmed. “Did you want me here?”
-
-“No,” said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again.
-
-In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands.
-
-“Dear Ramona,” Felipe had written, “I am distracted because I cannot
-speak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain things
-to you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandro
-will surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but you
-saw I could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing what you please;
-but, dear, I wish you would not go away from us!”
-
-Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her
-bosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing
-that the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply
-to Felipe, though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to
-him, there was no telling. “Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I
-am not unhappy. I understand all about it. But I must go away as soon as
-Alessandro comes.” Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back to
-the veranda. Felipe rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly
-bold, stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tired
-eyes of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramona
-was at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. He
-nodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. All
-was well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than she
-would ever know. This one secret interchange between Felipe and Ramona
-then, thus making, as it were, common cause with each other as against
-her, and in fear of her, was a step never to be recalled,--a step whose
-significance could scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and
-small, are apt to overlook such possibilities as this; to forget the
-momentousness which the most trivial incident may assume when forced
-into false proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats
-out of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except close
-students of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do this, the
-world cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters more innocent than
-the tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia that stands branded in
-men's thoughts, and not Siberia.
-
-The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was
-living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how
-little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever
-felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and
-this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and
-hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a
-day.
-
-The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had.
-All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what
-Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on
-the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have
-made the journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that
-there might be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He
-would doubtless return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case
-that proved the only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as
-his fancy dwelt on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the
-Temecula village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was
-monstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a
-girl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment contemplate leading
-the life of a poor laboring man's wife. He could not conceive of love's
-making one undertake any such life. Felipe had much to learn of love.
-Night came; no Alessandro. Till the darkness settled down, Ramona sat,
-watching the willows. When she could no longer see, she listened. The
-Senora, noting all, also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stage
-of affairs, but she would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve
-from the line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full of
-the moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill, and
-flooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just as it
-had done on that first night when Alessandro watched with Felipe on the
-veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the window-panes, and gazed out
-into the garden. At each flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the
-form of a man approaching. Again and again she saw it. Again and again
-the breeze died, and the shadow ceased. It was near morning before,
-weary, sad, she crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious
-eyes, she still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossed
-her mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said. In
-her childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly as
-she had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not come,
-unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her, and she asked
-herself continually, “Will he ever come! They sent him away; perhaps he
-will be too proud to come back!” Then faith would return, and saying to
-herself, “He would never, never forsake me; he knows I have no one in
-the whole world but him; he knows how I love him,” she would regain
-composure, and remind herself of the many detentions which might have
-prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she was
-heavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were
-sad to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also
-was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The girl
-might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear. But why
-should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It was a bad
-symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed, trouble
-ahead,--of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured.
-
-Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now
-since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand,
-and said: “You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she
-understands why I go; and in four days I will be back.” One week, and he
-had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly
-into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought.
-
-Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken
-possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh
-days she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he
-would be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out
-to the highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the
-distance,--the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back
-after dark, whiter and more wan than she went out. As she sat at the
-supper-table, silent, making no feint of eating, only drinking glass
-after glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even Margarita pitied her. But
-the Senora did not. She thought the best thing which could happen, would
-be that the Indian should never come back. Ramona would recover from it
-in a little while; the mortification would be the worst thing, but even
-that, time would heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pride
-than to let her wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would have
-died before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a whole
-household to see and gossip about.
-
-On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as
-he was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and
-saw them; but Ramona did not care. “Felipe!” she cried, “I must, I must
-speak to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him
-from coming?” Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky.
-A few more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe
-thought, as he looked compassionately at her.
-
-“Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!” he replied. “A thousand things
-might have kept him.”
-
-“Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!” said Ramona. “I know he
-is dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?”
-
-The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words.
-Looking toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been
-within sight or hearing, the Senora said, “It seems to me that would not
-be quite consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' If
-you thought best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, I
-suppose.”
-
-Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There
-were several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the
-place was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs,
-emptying the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in
-a long shed. In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it
-took one man to watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons
-of his own he liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer
-tread grapes in the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work
-at the still. “No ill but has its good,” he thought sometimes, as he lay
-comfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day,
-and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy.
-
-As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to
-Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone,
-nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: “She
-looks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot send
-to summon back a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is very
-perplexing. Most unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?”
- There was almost a diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora
-could, by a single phrase or question, plant in a person's mind the
-precise idea she wished him to think he had originated himself.
-
-“No; of course we can't send for him,” replied Felipe, angrily; “unless
-it is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on the
-place. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. I
-believe she will die.”
-
-“I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place,” said the
-Senora, gently, “for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; and
-he is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying,
-She may be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro.”
-
-“Of what kind do they die, mother?” asked Felipe, impatiently.
-
-The Senora looked reproachfully at him. “Not often of any,” she said;
-“but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneath
-them, in position, in education, in all points which are essential to
-congeniality of tastes or association of life.”
-
-The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing
-an abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for
-the moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a
-disgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not
-be gainsaid that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was
-undeniably Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external
-matters of life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro
-was no man's inferior in these; and in capacity to love,--Felipe
-sometimes wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that.
-This thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he
-had, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at
-Ramona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present
-dilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send
-a messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had
-been an accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that!
-Ramona ought to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And
-when Felipe, later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her.
-He said it as gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first
-comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith,
-how could she?
-
-When she did understand, she said slowly: “You mean that it will not do
-to send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if I
-wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?” and she fixed her
-eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom.
-
-“Yes, dear,” he answered, “something like that, though you put it
-harshly.”
-
-“Is it not true,” she persisted, “that is what you mean?”
-
-Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was.
-
-Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still
-more slowly, “If you feel like that, we had better never talk about
-Alessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, as
-I do, that nothing but his being dead would keep him from coming
-back. Thanks, dear Felipe;” and after this she did not speak again of
-Alessandro.
-
-Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if
-Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost
-even the Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted
-face, as she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on
-the willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would
-never hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to
-Father Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old
-man, could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she
-could surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not
-many roads; she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which
-had been so terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had
-threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter
-she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the convent at
-San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father to let her go
-there, and she would spend the rest of her life in prayer, and in
-teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat revolving this
-plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the future, that she
-lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged, old. She saw the
-procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the children by the hand;
-herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking between two of the little
-ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon as she grew a little stronger,
-she would set off on her journey to the Father; she could not go just
-yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled if she did but walk to the foot
-of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there could be no doubt of that.
-He was buried in that little walled graveyard of which he had told
-her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there and see his grave,
-perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man
-would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work might lie there,
-among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had not courage for
-it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,--the sound of the Church's
-prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent was the best.
-
-She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for
-she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river
-road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not
-go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora,
-who asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: “No, Senora, I do not
-think I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better
-to-morrow.”
-
-“I will send you strong broth and a medicine,” the Senora said; and sent
-her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down
-at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much
-thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. “Oh,
-Senorita! Senorita!” she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, “are you
-going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!”
-
-“I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita,” replied Ramona, raising
-herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face
-as she took the broth from her hands. “I do not know why you ask me to
-forgive you.”
-
-Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of
-weeping. “Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!”
-
-“No, I know nothing,” replied Ramona; “but if you know anything, it is
-all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away,” she
-added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she
-could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no
-longer be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. “I am going
-away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a
-convent; but the Senora does not know. You will not tell?”
-
-“No, Senorita!” whispered Margarita,--thinking in her heart, “Yes, she
-is going away, but it will be with the angels.”--“No, Senorita, I will
-not tell. I will do anything you want me to.”
-
-“Thanks, Margarita mia,” replied Ramona. “I thought you would;” and she
-lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like
-death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before,
-and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, “Mother, mother! the Senorita is
-ill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as
-white as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever.”
-
-“Ay,” said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; “ay, she has
-wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have
-seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death.”
-
-“Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,--hardly since that day;”
- and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to
-further define the day.
-
-“Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,” continued
-Margarita.
-
-“The saints grant it, then,” said Marda, hotly, “if it is he has cost
-the Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all,
-that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up
-with whatever 'tis has gone wrong.”
-
-“I could tell what it is,” said Margarita, her old pertness coming
-uppermost for a moment; “but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita's
-lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break your
-heart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for all
-I've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be with
-him before long; I know she is.”
-
-“No,” said the wiser, older Marda. “She is not so ill as you think. She
-is young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been that
-way myself. People are, when they're young.”
-
-“I'm young!” retorted Margarita. “I've never been that way.”
-
-“There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl,” said Marda,
-significantly; “and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb
-when I was your age!”
-
-Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child
-of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's
-father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were
-perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and
-daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough
-to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly
-leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust
-and ill-founded.
-
-“She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do,” thought Margarita.
-“I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me;
-never,--not till after she's gone.”
-
-A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on
-the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were
-not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to
-go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone
-with him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover
-ever wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the
-thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having
-had it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet
-so strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion
-were to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been
-deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and
-she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of
-displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now
-that the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no
-room for anything but pity for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage
-again, and all would be changed. The old hostility would return. It was
-but a dubious sort of ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly
-secured in Margarita. She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds.
-
-It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona
-had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself
-began to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of
-all thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed
-torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced
-rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over
-crises, strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be
-slain.
-
-As Ramona lay half unconscious,--neither awake nor yet asleep,--on this
-evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression produced upon her;
-it was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone; the house was still
-as death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She sat
-up in her bed, intent--half alarmed--half glad--bewildered--alive. What
-had happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fast
-deepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered senses
-and faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked around
-the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands, and
-leaped from the bed. “Alessandro is not dead!” she said aloud; and she
-laughed hysterically. “He is not dead!” she repeated. “He is not dead!
-He is somewhere near!”
-
-With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After
-the first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not
-tremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. “Oh, miracle!” she thought,
-as she hastened down the garden-walk; “I am well again! Alessandro is
-near!” So vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willows
-and found the spot silent, vacant, as when she had last sat there,
-hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a revulsion of disappointment.
-“Not here!” she cried; “not here!” and a swift fear shook her. “Am I
-mad? Is it this way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as
-I have been!”
-
-But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this
-was no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a
-revelation. Alessandro was near.
-
-Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener
-grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present
-mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that
-she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro.
-
-As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter
-of a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing,
-leaning against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be
-Alessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near the house
-where he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet
-a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely still; so still
-that, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied it might be an
-optical illusion. She advanced a few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped.
-As she did so, the man advanced a few steps, then stopped. As he came
-out from the shadows of the trees, she saw that he was of Alessandro's
-height. She quickened her steps, then suddenly stopped again. What did
-this mean? It could not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony
-of suspense. An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; but
-terror held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, she
-turned to walk back to the house, saying, “I must not run the risk of
-its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come.”
-
-But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower
-and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had
-returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the
-tree.
-
-“It may be a messenger from him,” she said; “a messenger who has been
-told not to come to the house until after dark.”
-
-Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments
-more brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was--yes, it
-was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away,
-his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, rather
-than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps,
-turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were
-clasped in each other's arms before they had looked in each other's
-faces. Ramona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking
-up, she began: “Alessandro--” But at the first sight of his face she
-shrieked. Was this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man,
-who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! “O God,”
- cried Ramona, “You have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what
-is it?”
-
-Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to
-collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes
-fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both
-her hands in his.
-
-“Senorita,” he said, “my Senorita!” Then he stopped. His tongue seemed
-to refuse him utterance; and this voice,--this strange, hard, unresonant
-voice,--whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.
-
-“My Senorita,” he began again, “I could not go without one sight of your
-face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If
-you had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you.”
-
-Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean?
-Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.
-
-“Heavens, Senorita!” he cried, “have you not heard? Do you not know what
-has happened?”
-
-“I know nothing, love,” answered Ramona. “I have heard nothing since
-you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night
-something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you.”
-
-At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms
-around her again. As she said “love,” his whole frame shook with
-emotion.
-
-“My Senorita!” he whispered, “my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How
-shall I tell you!”
-
-“What is there to tell, Alessandro?” she said. “I am afraid of nothing,
-now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought.”
-
-But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining
-her closer to his breast, he cried: “Dearest Senorita! I feel as if
-I should die when I tell you,--I have no home; my father is dead;
-my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now,
-Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!”
- As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against
-the tree, added: “I am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving.”
-
-Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its
-look of incredulous horror. He misread it.
-
-“I only came to look at you once more,” he continued. “I will go now.
-May the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent
-you to me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had not
-come.”
-
-While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting
-it now, she said, “Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead,
-Alessandro?”
-
-“I thought that the news about our village must have reached you,” he
-said, “and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, to
-seem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was little
-enough I had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believe
-that you could come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I had
-thought of many things I could do; and--” lowering his voice and
-speaking almost sullenly--“it is the saints, I believe, who have
-punished me thus for having resolved to leave my people, and take all I
-had for myself and you. Now they have left me nothing;” and he groaned.
-
-“Who?” cried Ramona. “Was there a battle? Was your father killed?” She
-was trembling with horror.
-
-“No,” answered Alessandro. “There was no battle. There would have been,
-if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it
-would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged
-me to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He
-felt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We
-had often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you
-recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,--how fair he always was, and
-kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles
-and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost,
-than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order his
-men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be
-trouble; and well they might,--turning a whole village full of men and
-women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like foxes.
-If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead,
-if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was no
-help for us.”
-
-“But, Alessandro,” interrupted Ramona, “I can't understand. Who was it
-made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?”
-
-“I don't know who they are,” Alessandro replied, his voice full of
-anger and scorn. “They're Americans--eight or ten of them. They all got
-together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and it
-was decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr.
-Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could
-go against the law.”
-
-“Oh,” said Ramona, “that's the way the Americans took so much of the
-Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San Francisco;
-and they decided that miles and miles of her land, which the General
-had always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the United
-States Government.”
-
-“They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!” cried
-Alessandro. “They are going to steal all the land in this country; we
-might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them have
-it. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; but
-I did not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but he
-was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to be
-thankful for now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and I
-prayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. He
-never knew anything clear after they took him out of his house. That was
-before I got there. I found him sitting on the ground outside. They said
-it was the sun that had turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his
-heart breaking in his bosom. He would not come out of his house, and
-the men lifted him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on the
-ground; and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when he
-saw them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out,
-'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said it
-was a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobody
-could stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling. God!
-Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I got there,
-some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head, to keep the
-sun off. He did not call any more, only for water, water. That was what
-made them think the sun had done it. They did all they could; but it was
-such a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the sheriff's men were in
-great hurry; they gave no time. They said the people must all be off in
-two days. Everybody was running hither and thither. Everything out of
-the houses in piles on the ground. The people took all the roofs off
-their houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they would do
-again. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is like
-death. I can't!”
-
-Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love,
-in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like
-this.'
-
-“Don't weep, Senorita,” said Alessandro, drearily. “Tears kill one, and
-do no good.”
-
-“How long did your father live?” asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer
-around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona,
-yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one
-to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if
-he had been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his
-enfeebled and benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received
-these caresses, which once would have made him beside himself with joy.
-He leaned against her breast as a child might.
-
-“He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I came
-away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, is
-almost weaker than I. The Americans took my horse,” Alessandro said.
-
-“Took your horse!” cried Ramona, aghast. “Is that the law, too?”
-
-“So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must take
-enough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit up
-in San Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they were worth,
-I thought; but they said cattle were selling very low now. There were
-not enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up in
-horses; and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove the
-cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's head before any
-American should ever have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachanga
-with my father. He would not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led
-him all the way; and then after he got there he was so ill I never left
-him a minute. He did not know me any more, nor know anything that had
-happened. I built a little hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he
-died. When I put him in his grave, I was glad.”
-
-“In Temecula?” asked Ramona.
-
-“In Temecula.” exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. “You don't seem to
-understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to our
-graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be
-hanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in were a
-rough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw him
-trespassing on their property.”
-
-“Their property!” ejaculated Ramona.
-
-“Yes; it is theirs,” said Alessandro, doggedly. “That is the law.
-They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always
-said,--if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they never
-did in those days. Nobody had papers. The American law is different.”
-
-“It's a law of thieves!” cried Ramona.
-
-“Yes, and of murderers too,” said Alessandro. “Don't you call my father
-murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita,
-my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin?
-But, my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I will
-speak no more.”
-
-“No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not
-share. Tell me about Jose,” cried Ramona, breathlessly.
-
-“Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year
-ago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was the
-only other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and that
-splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at home
-when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking.
-That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little baby
-only a few weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like to live,
-and Jose would not leave it. Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff
-riding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose
-knew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my
-father, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one
-minute, and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit
-like that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would
-die. But he did not. They picked him up, and presently he was better;
-and Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the moving the first
-day as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on the
-ground with the women, and covered up their faces, and would not see.
-But Jose worked; and, Senorita, one of the first things he did, was to
-run with my father's violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her
-to hide it for us; Jose knew it was worth money. But before noon the
-second day he had another fit, and died in it,--died right in his own
-door, carrying out some of the things; and after Carmena--that's his
-wife's name--saw he was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back
-and forth on the ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to
-Pachanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession
-of us.”
-
-“Where is Pachanga?” asked Ramona.
-
-“About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told
-the people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to
-anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any
-water; that's the worst of it.”
-
-“No water!” cried Ramona.
-
-“No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by it
-as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all.
-I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her on
-one arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but the baby cried,
-so she took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live the day out; but
-it did live till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hours
-before he died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl,
-and sat down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'How
-is the little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead.
-'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We will
-bury them together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at night
-she helped me dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's
-breast; but she said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it
-herself; and we put them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She
-was sitting there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two
-little trees with the boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves.
-So that is the way our new graveyard was begun,--my father and the
-little baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the blessed
-fortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!”
-
-“Where did they bury Jose?” gasped Ramona.
-
-“In Temecula,” said Alessandro. “Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men dig
-a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at
-night and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is very
-dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not stay
-longer. Can I go as far as the brook with you, safely, without being
-seen? The saints bless you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived,
-I think, without one more sight of your face;” and, springing to his
-feet, Alessandro stood waiting for Ramona to move. She remained
-still. She was in a sore strait. Her heart held but one impulse, one
-desire,--to go with Alessandro; nothing was apparently farther from
-his thoughts than this. Could she offer to go? Should she risk laying a
-burden on him greater than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as
-he said, would his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herself
-strong and able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knew
-nothing of, but she felt no fear of them.
-
-“Alessandro!” she said, in a tone which startled him.
-
-“My Senorita!” he said tenderly.
-
-“You have never once called me Ramona.”
-
-“I cannot, Senorita!” he replied.
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'” he added faintly; “but not
-often. If I think of you by any other name than as my Senorita, it is
-usually by a name you never heard.”
-
-“What is it?” exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.
-
-“An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,--the
-wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thought
-my people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. It
-is a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you.”
-
-Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she
-laid both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said:
-“Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to
-your people.”
-
-Alessandro's silence astonished her. “You are surprised,” she said. “I
-thought you would be glad.”
-
-“The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita,” he said. “I knew
-it!”
-
-“How?” cried Ramona. “And you never told me, Alessandro!”
-
-“How could I?” he replied. “I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me.”
-
-“Juan Canito!” said Ramona, musingly. “How could he have known?” Then in
-a few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her.
-“Is that what Juan Can said?” she asked.
-
-“All except the father's name,” stammered Alessandro.
-
-“Who did he say was my father?” she asked.
-
-Alessandro was silent.
-
-“It matters not,” said Ramona. “He was wrong. The Senora, of course,
-knew. He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he
-gave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of my
-father.”
-
-“Yes, you have, my Senorita,” replied Alessandro, tenderly. “After I
-knew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to me
-like the faces of my own people.”
-
-“Are you not glad, Alessandro?”
-
-“Yes, my Senorita.”
-
-What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without
-premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what
-she was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: “Oh,
-Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than
-have you leave me again!”
-
-
-
-
-XV
-
-ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of
-his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost
-pain; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak.
-Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on
-his forehead reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and
-trembling she could barely understand his words: “My Senorita knows that
-my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and
-neither the fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make
-me glad for her sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it
-away. She is tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a
-bed, and have no food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says.”
-
-His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking
-of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather
-than speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter
-Ramona. “I am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We
-can both work. I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us
-food,” she said.
-
-“That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away
-that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not
-afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least always be food,
-and I could make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the
-saints are displeased. They do not pray for us any more. It is as my
-father said, they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy us all.
-I do not know but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison
-us, to get us all out of the country, as they do the rabbits and the
-gophers; it would not be any worse than what they have done. Would not
-you rather be dead, Senorita, than be as I am to-day?”
-
-Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share
-his lot. “Alessandro,” she interrupted, “there are many men among your
-people who have wives, are there not?”
-
-“Yes, Senorita!” replied Alessandro, wonderingly.
-
-“Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has
-come?”
-
-“No, Senorita.” still more wonderingly; “how could they?”
-
-“They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make
-them happier, are they not?”
-
-“Yes, Senorita.” Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended.
-It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed
-in her lines of interrogation.
-
-“Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?”
-
-“Very much, Senorita.” A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could
-not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even
-her neck changed color as she asked her last question. “Do you think any
-one of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?”
-
-Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done.
-Were not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not
-enough to make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was
-silent.
-
-“You know there is not one!” said Ramona, impetuously.
-
-“Oh, it is too much!” cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly.
-Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out
-breathless: “My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare
-not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must
-live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you
-had never seen me.”
-
-“Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?”
- said Ramona. “I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all
-alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra,
-and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is
-what I will do now if you leave me!”
-
-“Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful
-Senorita in the convent! No, no!” cried Alessandro, greatly agitated.
-
-“Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out
-to-morrow.”
-
-Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do
-as she said. “Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a
-wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me.”
-
-“When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent
-would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do
-good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never
-have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather
-die, than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!”
-
-Alessandro was conquered. “I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,”
- he said gravely,--no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was
-hollow; “I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you,
-even if they have forsaken me and my people!”
-
-“Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake any
-one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long,
-Alessandro,” cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn
-silence for a moment, as if registering a vow.
-
-Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any
-woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro.
-
-When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, “Then
-you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?”
-
-“I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my
-Ramona,” replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing
-his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not
-tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when
-he first saw Ramona bending over the brook under the willows he had said
-aloud, “My God! what shall I do!”
-
-It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro
-wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the
-Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. “You do
-not know the Senora, Alessandro,” she cried, “or you would never think
-of it. She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she
-would kill me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to
-prevent my going away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw
-me in the well in the court-yard, rather than have me go with you.”
-
-“I would never let her harm you,” said Alessandro. “Neither would Senor
-Felipe.”
-
-“She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,” answered
-Ramona. “She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help
-himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't
-dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is
-asleep. We must go at once.”
-
-Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to
-wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to
-embrace him again. “Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir
-from this place till I come,” she said.
-
-“I will be here when you come,” he said.
-
-“It will not be more than two hours,” she said, “or three, at the
-utmost. It must be nine o'clock now.”
-
-She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave
-the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something
-to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her
-innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she
-had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey.
-As Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had
-pictured himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing
-Antonio's matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen
-short days ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up
-and seen Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the
-wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of
-a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved
-her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had
-uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound to his side,
-and with gasps between his words told him. Alessandro could not remember
-the words, only that after them he set his teeth, and dropping the
-bridle, laid his head down between Benito's ears, and whispered to him;
-and Benito never stopped, but galloped on all that day, till he came
-into Temecula; and there Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and
-the wagons being loaded, and the people running about, the women and
-children wailing; and then they showed him the place where his father
-lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go,
-and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And
-now here he was, under the willows,--the same copse where he first
-halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark night, and
-Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and she was going back
-presently to go away with him,--where! He had no home in the wide world
-to which to take her,--and this poor beast he had ridden from Temecula,
-had it strength enough left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had
-himself walked more than half the distance, to spare the creature, and
-yet there had been good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too
-long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had
-found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses
-taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But Alessandro,
-even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved in his mind a
-project he would not have dared to confide to her. If Baba, Ramona's own
-horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without difficulty
-lure him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it were,
-it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had
-always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he
-could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by
-Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona
-could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly
-as complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest
-pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to caress
-and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young
-mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as
-the sound of Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with
-quick but stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the
-willows, he skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the
-sheepfolds lay, and then turned up to approach the corral from the
-farther side. There was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They
-were all asleep. That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they
-slept; many a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice
-over their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,--out
-and in without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny.
-leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible
-whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end of
-the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the group; and
-one of them turned and came a pace or two toward Alessandro.
-
-“I believe that is Baba himself,” thought Alessandro; and he made
-another low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he
-suspected some mischief.
-
-“Baba,” whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any
-dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed
-instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution.
-If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little
-more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the
-fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and
-giving soft whinnying sighs.
-
-“Hush! hush! Baba,” whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a
-human being. “Hush!” and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper
-rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as
-soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still
-by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself,
-spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning
-as to how Baba had managed to get out of the corral.
-
-This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro
-had hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get
-the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things
-hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in
-Southern California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate,
-as any Signal Service Report could be,--a floor and a roof; no walls,
-only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large
-scale are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The
-longer he thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle.
-
-“Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the
-ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving
-you. Come, Baba!” and he struck down the hill again, the horse following
-him softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run,
-with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few
-moments they were safe in the willow copse, where Alessandro's poor pony
-was tethered. Fastening Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him
-on the neck, pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, “Good Baba,
-stay here till the Senorita comes.” Baba whinnied.
-
-“Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!” thought
-Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He
-felt strong now,--felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy
-thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses
-had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the
-ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn,
-several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his
-adventure; every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some
-seconds, then crept a few paces more. As he neared the corner where
-Ramona's saddle always hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night,
-Luigo slept on the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost.
-Groping in the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt
-for the saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the
-ground again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he
-made, that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear.
-
-“Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!” said Alessandro to
-himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and,
-springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders.
-It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for
-the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in
-comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba
-would carry them both, and never know it; and it might come to that,
-Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was
-stretched out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in
-scornful wonder at this strange new associate.
-
-“The saints be praised!” thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to
-wait. “This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita.”
-
-Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be
-best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek
-a new home?
-
-It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay
-each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to
-San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard
-ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on
-the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr.
-Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro
-remembered his own violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay
-in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it
-possible? No, of course it could not be possible that the Senorita would
-think to bring it. What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro
-was sure.
-
-How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more
-and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded,
-the darkness dense. “It must have been the saints, too, that brought me
-on a night when there was no moon,” he thought; and then he said again,
-devout and simple-minded man that he was. “They mean to protect my
-Senorita; they will let me take care of her.”
-
-Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had
-reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her,
-Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had
-given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she
-had not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have
-known that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have
-watched to see what it meant.
-
-Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda,
-sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not
-late.
-
-As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her
-windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's
-feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and
-prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where
-to go.
-
-“I know she will! I am sure she will!” whispered Ramona to herself as
-she rose from her knees.
-
-Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe
-should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she
-wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago,
-when she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour.
-
-Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two
-of the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of
-burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and
-are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are
-gathered at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the
-forehead. In these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease,
-heavier loads than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona
-recollected these, she had been perplexed to know how she should carry
-the things which she had made up her mind it would be right for her to
-take,--only a few; simply necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls;
-the new altar-cloth, and two changes of clothes; that would not be a
-great deal; she had a right to so much, she thought, now that she
-had seen the jewels in the Senora's keeping. “I will tell Father
-Salvierderra exactly what I took,” she thought, “and ask him if it was
-too much.” She did not like to think that all these clothes she must
-take had been paid for with the Senora Moreno's money.
-
-And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What
-would life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los
-Angeles, he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had
-devised several ways by which they could both earn money.
-
-There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too;
-wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt
-he looked. “Starving,” he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And
-she had sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good
-food thrown to the dogs to eat.
-
-It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that
-before Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona
-dared feel sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was
-dark; it was past midnight.
-
-“The violin first!” she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and
-through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it
-in shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then she
-stole out, with this net on her back, “like a true Indian woman as I
-am,” she said, almost gayly, to herself,--through the court-yard, around
-the southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows,
-where she laid down her load, and went back for the second.
-
-This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold
-meat. She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's
-possessions as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made
-several journeys to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her
-store. Wine, luckily, she found in the dining-room,--two full bottles;
-also milk, which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall
-in the veranda.
-
-Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's
-breathing. “How can I go without bidding him good-by?” she said. “How
-can I?” and she stood irresolute.
-
-“Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He has done
-all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for
-him.”
-
-Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light
-would hardly be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the
-dining-room, knelt on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and
-wrote:--
-
-“DEAR FELIPE,--Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him
-to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't
-know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love
-you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness.
-
-“RAMONA.”
-
-It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into
-her room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house.
-From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she
-stretched out her arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just
-over Felipe's feet. There was a risk that the Senora would come out in
-the morning, before Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk
-she would take.
-
-“Farewell, dear Felipe!” she whispered, under her breath, as she turned
-from the window.
-
-The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the
-upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange
-going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came
-bounding down.
-
-“Holy Virgin, I am lost!” thought Ramona; but, crouching on the ground,
-she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a
-piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it, wagging his
-tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, she picked up her load
-again, and still fondling him, said, “Come on, Capitan!” It was her last
-chance. If he barked again, somebody would be waked; if he went by her
-side quietly, she might escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her
-forehead as she took her first step cautiously. The dog followed. She
-quickened her pace; he trotted along, still smelling the meat in the
-net. When she reached the willows, she halted, debating whether she
-should give him a large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was
-eating it, or whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided
-on the latter course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was
-safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the house; all was dark
-and still. She could hardly see its outline. A great wave of emotion
-swept over her. It was the only home she had ever known. All she
-had experienced of happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had been
-there,--Felipe, Father Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the
-garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in the
-chapel! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns in the chapel now? How
-Felipe would miss her, when he knelt before the altar! For fourteen
-years she had knelt by his side. And the Senora,--the hard, cold Senora!
-She would alone be glad. Everybody else would be sorry. “They will all
-be sorry I have gone,--all but the Senora! I wish it had been so that I
-could have bidden them all good-by, and had them all bid me good-by, and
-wish us good fortune!” thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a
-long sigh, and, turning her back on her home, went forward in the path
-she had chosen.
-
-She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. “Will you come with me,
-Capitan?” she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three
-short, sharp notes of delight. “Good Capitan, come! They will not
-miss him out of so many,” she thought, “and it will always seem like
-something from home, as long as I have Capitan.”
-
-When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing
-slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension
-at the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows
-at this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into
-the copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments
-more he thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this
-bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling
-along under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a
-collie as Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness.
-Presently he saw the figure halt,--drop part of its burden.
-
-“Alessandro!” came in a sweet, low call.
-
-He bounded like a deer, crying, “My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be
-you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!”
-
-Ramona laughed. “Do you remember the day you showed me how the Indian
-women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I did not think
-then I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, Alessandro. It
-isn't the weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have carried them much
-farther!”
-
-“Ah, you had no basket to cover the head,” replied Alessandro, as he
-threw up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In
-doing so, he felt the violin-case.
-
-“Is it the violin?” he cried. “My blessed one, where did you get it?”
-
-“Off the table in Felipe's room,” she answered. “I knew you would rather
-have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; it seemed
-nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to carry. Will
-it be too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can walk. And see,
-Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring him, to
-keep him still. Can't he go with us?”
-
-Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast,
-licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and
-affection.
-
-Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times
-heard him do this. It frightened her. “Why do you laugh, Alessandro?”
- she said.
-
-“To think what I have to show you, my Senorita,” he said. “Look here;”
- and turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at
-the first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end
-of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he
-perceived Ramona.
-
-Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great.
-
-“Are you not glad, Senorita?” cried Alessandro, aghast. “Is it not your
-own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony
-can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I thought it would be joy
-to you to have Baba.”
-
-“Oh, it is! it is!” sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. “It is
-a miracle,--a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!” she
-cried, for the first time observing that. “Alessandro,” in an awe-struck
-whisper, “did the saints send him? Did you find him here?” It would have
-seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so.
-
-“I think the saints helped me to bring him,” answered Alessandro,
-seriously, “or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near
-the corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at
-my word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, Senorita.
-It is no harm to take him?”
-
-“Oh, no!” answered Ramona. “He is more mine than anything else I had;
-for it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just stand on his
-legs; he was only two days old; and I have fed him out of my hand every
-day till now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we will never be parted,
-never!” and she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek
-against it lovingly.
-
-Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the
-saddle. “Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so
-heavy as my Senorita thought,” he said. “It was the weight on the
-forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her
-pain.”
-
-Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. “We must make all
-the speed we can, dearest Senorita,” he said, “for a few hours. Then we
-will rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can hide safely
-all day. We will journey only by night, lest they pursue us.”
-
-“They will not,” said Ramona. “There is no danger. The Senora said she
-should do nothing. 'Nothing!'” she repeated, in a bitter tone. “That is
-what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help us. He would have
-liked to have you stay with us; but all he could get was, that she would
-do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. They will wish never to hear
-of me again. I mean, the Senora will wish never to hear of me. Felipe
-will be sorry. Felipe is very good, Alessandro.”
-
-They were all ready now,--Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets swinging
-from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his tired
-pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but
-Ramona's heart was full of joy.
-
-“I don't know why it is, Alessandro,” she said; “I should think I
-would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,--not the least; not of
-anything that can come, Alessandro,” she reiterated with emphasis. “Is
-it not strange?”
-
-“Yes, Senorita,” he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he
-walked close at her side. “It is strange. I am afraid,--afraid for you,
-my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the
-saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love
-you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people.”
-
-“Are you never going to call me by my name?” asked Ramona. “I hate your
-calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she
-was displeased.”
-
-“I will never speak the word again!” cried Alessandro. “The saints
-forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!”
-
-“Can't you say Ramona?” she asked.
-
-Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him
-difficult to say Ramona.
-
-“What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?” she
-continued. “The Indian name,--the name of the dove?”
-
-“Majel,” he said. “It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you
-since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me,
-and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark;
-and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the
-wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in
-the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one mate always--” He stopped.
-
-“As I to you, Alessandro,” said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and
-resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.
-
-Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his
-mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had
-ever before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close
-that he touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it
-had been anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it
-even now. But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she
-had stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder.
-Did that mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted
-accordingly; turning his head round to the right, and looking back to
-see what came of it.
-
-Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips
-together,--what could Baba think? As mischievously as if he had been
-a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore the lovers
-apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,--Alessandro running; the poor
-Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for
-many a day.
-
-“Majel is my name, then,” said Ramona, “is it? It is a sweet sound, but
-I would like it better Majella. Call me Majella.”
-
-“That will be good,” replied Alessandro, “for the reason that never
-before had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to say
-Majella. I know not why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my
-tongue.”
-
-“Because it was to be that you should call me Majella,” said Ramona.
-“Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora
-called me by--and dear Felipe too,” she added thoughtfully. “He would
-not know me by my new name. I would like to have him always call
-me Ramona. But for all the rest of the world I am Majella,
-now,--Alessandro's Majel!”
-
-
-
-
-XVI
-
-AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile,
-Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began
-turning him round and round in the road.
-
-“We will not go any farther in the road,” he said, “but I must conceal
-our tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces.” The obedient
-Baba backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the
-Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under
-Alessandro's skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and
-stood waiting further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was
-no trail to show where they had left the road.
-
-After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles,
-cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the
-tracks for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much
-bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro said: “I think now they
-will never discover where we left the road. They will ride along, seeing
-our tracks plain, and then they will be so sure that we would have kept
-straight on, that they will not notice for a time; and when they do,
-they will never be able to see where the trail ended. And now my Majella
-has a very hard ride before her. Will she be afraid?”
-
-“Afraid.” laughed Ramona. “Afraid,--on Baba, and with you!”
-
-But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for
-the day in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to
-Temecula,--a trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in this
-canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit. Alessandro did not
-in the least share Ramona's confidence that no effort would be made to
-overtake them. To his mind, it appeared certain that the Senora would
-never accept the situation without making an attempt to recover at least
-the horse and the dog. “She can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen
-one of her horses,” he thought to himself bitterly; “and everybody would
-believe her. Nobody would believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's
-own horse.”
-
-The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it
-was in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had
-grown up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of
-thicket. Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot
-once from the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had
-found, to his surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this
-canon that he had brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona
-to arrange for the decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with
-them, growing almost in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so
-farther down, and to reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to
-let himself down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its head was little
-more than a rift in the rocks, and the stream which had its rise in
-it was only a trickling spring at the beginning. It was this precious
-water, as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided
-Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of
-granite would not have seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did
-this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly searching for a
-break in it. It appeared to Alessandro to have thickened and knit even
-since the last spring. At last they made their way down a small side
-canon,--a sort of wing to the main canon; a very few rods down this, and
-they were as hidden from view from above as if the earth had swallowed
-them. The first red tints of the dawn were coming. From the eastern
-horizon to the zenith, the whole sky was like a dappled crimson fleece.
-
-“Oh, what a lovely place.” exclaimed Ramona. “I am sure this was not a
-hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?”
-
-Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. “How little does the
-wood-dove know of rough places!” he said. “This is only the beginning;
-hardly is it even the beginning.”
-
-Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing
-from sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction.
-Returning at last, with a grave face, he said, “Will Majella let me
-leave her here for a little time? There is a way, but I can find it only
-on foot. I will not be gone long. I know it is near.”
-
-Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing
-sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. “I must go, Majella,” he
-said with emphasis. “We are in danger here.”
-
-“Go! go! Alessandro,” she cried. “But, oh, do not be long!”
-
-As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and
-snapping before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the
-world. Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her
-call. All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments
-seemed hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the
-sky, and the crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard
-Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy.
-
-“I have found the trail!” he exclaimed; “but we must climb up again out
-of this; and it is too light. I like it not.”
-
-With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open
-again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close
-to the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way,
-suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but
-the boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them;
-still the little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted
-with displeasure as he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The
-thick-set, thorny branches smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they
-caught the nets swung on Baba's sides; presently these were held fast,
-and Baba began to rear and kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro
-dismounted, cut the strings, and put both the packages securely on the
-back of his own pony. “I will walk,” he said. “It was only a little way
-longer I would have ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow.”
-
-“Narrow,” indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her
-eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,--a stony,
-crumbling path,--on the side of a precipice, down which the stones
-rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as they
-passed; at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. Only
-the yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to
-keep foothold on this precipice. Of these there were thousands; and
-their tall flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set thick with the
-shining, smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun.
-Below--hundreds of feet below--lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of
-chaparral, looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees
-lifted their heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain
-glistened the loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world,
-seen of but few human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these
-fugitives this day.
-
-Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first
-tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the
-horse was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now,
-they would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there
-was running water, clear as crystal, and cold,--almost colder than one
-could drink,--and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the
-horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain
-for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these
-thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes
-full of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been
-only on the smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so
-fearless, that he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she
-had dropped the reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and
-sitting unsteadily in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but
-she was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly
-that Baba, whose nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a
-stop that Ramona uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing.
-
-Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail
-was impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to
-ride. Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat.
-
-“Carita,” he cried, “I was stupid not to have told you how narrow the
-way is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the
-ferns on my back I brought for you.”
-
-“Oh, did you?” gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from her
-contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change of her
-thoughts than she could have been by anything else. “Did you? It is
-frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel as if I
-were on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my hands and
-knees, I think I would like it better. Could I?”
-
-“I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella,” answered
-Alessandro, sorrowfully. “It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; I
-will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the whole
-band, for the sheep-shearing,--old Fernando on his horse all the way.”
-
-“Really,” said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, “I will try not to
-be so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?”
-
-“Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an
-hour yet before we stop.”
-
-But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the
-bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only,
-as she looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had
-come,--little more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the
-rock,--she shuddered.
-
-Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when
-they arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did
-the sun fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an
-exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. “Yes,” he said,
-“when I came here for the ferns, I wished to myself many times that you
-could see it. There is not in all this country so beautiful a place.
-This is our first home, my Majella,” he added, in a tone almost solemn;
-and throwing his arms around her, he drew her to his breast, with the
-first feeling of joy he had experienced.
-
-“I wish we could live here always,” cried Ramona.
-
-“Would Majella be content?” said Alessandro.
-
-“Very,” she answered.
-
-He sighed. “There would not be land enough, to live here,” he said.
-“If there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and
-never see the face of a white man again!” Already the instinct of the
-hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's
-blood. “But there would be no food. We could not live here.” Ramona's
-exclamation had set Alessandro to thinking, however. “Would Majella be
-content to stay here three days now?” he asked. “There is grass enough
-for the horses for that time. We should be very safe here; and I fear
-very much we should not be safe on any road. I think, Majella, the
-Senora will send men after Baba.”
-
-“Baba!” cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. “My own horse! She would not
-dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!” But even as
-she spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would dare anything; would
-misrepresent anything; only too well Ramona knew what the very mention
-of the phrase “horse-stealing” meant all through the country. She looked
-piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts.
-
-“Yes, that is it, Majella,” he said. “If she sent men after Baba, there
-is no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for you to
-say he was yours. They would not believe you; and they might take me
-too, if the Senora had told them to, and put me into Ventura jail.”
-
-“She's just wicked enough to do it!” cried Ramona. “Let us not stir out
-of this spot, Alessandro,--not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By
-that time she would have given over looking for us.”
-
-“I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do not
-know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, now, to
-kill.”
-
-“But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro,” said Ramona, earnestly,
-“and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!” She was like
-a child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for
-the time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued.
-Pursuit of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the
-reclaiming of Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona
-thought of it, the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would
-be likely to commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly
-prevent it. It was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that
-it would be shameful to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay
-Ramona's hope.
-
-If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note
-to Felipe she had said that she supposed they were going to Father
-Salvierderra, it would have saved both her and Alessandro much
-disquietude. Alessandro would have known that men pursuing them, on that
-supposition, would have gone straight down the river road to the sea,
-and struck northward along the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to
-mention this; in fact, she hardly recollected it after the first day.
-Alessandro had explained to her his plan, which was to go by way of
-Temecula to San Diego, to be married there by Father Gaspara, the priest
-of that parish, and then go to the village or pueblo of San Pasquale,
-about fifteen miles northwest of San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's
-was the head man of this village, and had many times begged him to come
-there to live; but Alessandro had steadily refused, believing it to
-be his duty to remain at Temecula with his father. San Pasquale was
-a regularly established pueblo, founded by a number of the Indian
-neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of the breaking up
-of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the Governor of
-California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to it. A
-paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the Governor's
-own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of the
-pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority passed
-into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro had
-spoken.
-
-“Ysidro has that paper still,” Alessandro said, “and he thinks it
-will keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are
-beginning to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not believe,
-Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years we can
-perhaps stay there. There are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley;
-it is much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people are much better off
-than ours were. They have splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large
-wheat-fields. Ysidro's house stands under a great fig-tree; they say it
-is the largest fig-tree in the country.”
-
-“But, Alessandro,” cried Ramona, “why do you think it is not safe there,
-if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right.”
-
-“I don't know,” replied Alessandro. “Perhaps it may be; but I have got
-the feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the Americans. I
-don't believe they will mind the paper.”
-
-“They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers
-they took away,” said Ramona, thoughtfully. “But Felipe said that was
-because Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to
-give away.”
-
-“That's just it,” said Alessandro. “Can't they say that same thing about
-any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the Senora
-couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all
-about the law, and can speak the American language, what chance is there
-for us? We can't take care of ourselves any better than the wild beasts
-can, my Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me? Why did I let you?”
-
-After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground,
-and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It
-was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought
-of danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and
-apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from
-the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and
-that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from
-her inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things
-Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was
-also largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of
-her soul,--qualities in her nature never yet tested; qualities of
-which she hardly knew so much as the name, but which were to bear her
-steadfast and buoyant through many sorrowful years.
-
-Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro
-had prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita
-and ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon.
-Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long;
-when it was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona
-seated herself on it, she exclaimed: “Now I shall see how it feels to
-lie and look up at the stars at night! Do you recollect, Alessandro,
-the night you put Felipe's bed on the veranda, when you told me how
-beautiful it was to lie at night out of doors and look up at the stars?”
-
-Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,--the first moment he had ever
-dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. “Yes, I remember it,
-my Majella,” he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, “That was
-the day Juan Can had told me that your mother was of my people; and that
-was the night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps you might
-some day love me.”
-
-“But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?” said Ramona, seeing that
-he spread no more boughs. “You have made yourself no bed.”
-
-Alessandro laughed. “I need no bed,” he said. “We think it is on our
-mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella.
-It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall not
-sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch.”
-
-“Why, what are you afraid of?” asked Ramona.
-
-“It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella,” he answered.
-“It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall
-feel safer to watch to-night.”
-
-This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was,
-that he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him
-uneasiness. They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the
-tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the
-curl of smoke from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and
-keep it blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast
-return.
-
-“But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not
-strong,” said Ramona, anxiously.
-
-“I am strong now, Majella,” answered Alessandro. And indeed he did
-already look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety.
-“I am no longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch.”
-
-“Will you lie on the fern-bed then?” asked Ramona, gleefully.
-
-“I would like the ground better,” said honest Alessandro.
-
-Ramona looked disappointed. “That is very strange,” she said. “It is
-not so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by
-lying on it,” she continued, throwing herself down; “but oh, how sweet,
-how sweet it smells!”
-
-“Yes, there is spice-wood in it,” he answered. “I put it in at the head,
-for Majella's pillow.”
-
-Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept
-like a child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear
-the crackling of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of
-Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet
-him, made the canon echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard
-the stealthy steps of wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour
-she slept on. And hour after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge
-sycamore-trunk, and watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her
-face, he thought he had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of
-calm repose insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a
-saint, he thought; perhaps it was as a saint of help and guidance, the
-Virgin was sending her to him and his people. The darkness deepened,
-became blackness; only the red gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying
-rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black storm-clouds in the heavens.
-With the darkness, the stillness also deepened. Nothing broke that,
-except an occasional motion of Baba or the pony, or an alert signal from
-Capitan; then all seemed stiller than ever. Alessandro felt as if God
-himself were in the canon. Countless times in his life before he had
-lain in lonely places under the sky and watched the night through, but
-he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was
-to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and the next,
-all through the coming years? What was to come to this beloved and
-loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so trustful, guarded
-only by him,--by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive, homeless man?
-
-Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full
-of them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened
-sense; pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and
-replying, as did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he
-watched under the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,--“Love?” “Here!”
- “Love?” “Here!” They comforted him still more now. “They too have only
-each other,” he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face.
-
-It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning
-twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the
-sycamores caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in
-the dusk. Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar
-sound of the linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her
-instantly. Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed,
-“Oh, is it morning already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than
-we! Sing, Alessandro,” and she began the hymn:--
-
-“'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we
-too sing.'”
-
-Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot.
-
-“Sing not so loud, my Majel,” whispered Alessandro, as her voice went
-carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. “There might be hunters near
-who would hear;” and he joined in with low and muffled tones.
-
-As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than
-before:--
-
-     “'Come, O sinners,
-     Come, and we will sing
-     Tender hymns
-     To our refuge,'”
-
-“Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!” said Alessandro. “My
-Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints.” And indeed he might
-have been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in
-the shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall
-of fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in
-tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with
-devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of
-sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun
-she could not see.
-
-“Hush, my love,” she breathed rather than said. “That would be a sin, if
-you really thought it.
-
-     'O beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven,'”
-
-she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking
-on her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost
-without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the
-morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory
-crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It
-had belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father
-Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to the “blessed child,” Ramona,
-at her confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not
-have bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate
-heart it had always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father
-Salvierderra's love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted
-Peyri.
-
-As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the
-last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight
-shot into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern
-crest,--shot in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, lighted
-it; by a flash as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the beads,
-on Ramona's hands, and on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a
-flash, and it was gone! To both Ramona and Alessandro it came like an
-omen,--like a message straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better
-messenger,--she, the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven;
-mother of the Christ to whom they prayed, through her,--mother, for
-whose sake He would regard their least cry,--could she choose better
-messenger, or swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would
-help them in these sore straits.
-
-Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be
-found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled
-the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the
-wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary.
-
-
-
-
-XVII
-
-BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to
-Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter.
-Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more
-for man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to
-do, than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection,
-when by weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an
-interval, to her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of
-what he had called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of
-superiority, makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! “Whom the
-gods love, die young,” has been too long carelessly said. It is not
-true, in the sense in which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell
-with nature; if they are ever lured away, return to her before they are
-old. Then, however long they live before they die, they die young. Whom
-the gods love, live young--forever.
-
-With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian,
-Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted
-look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they
-meant.
-
-“If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?”
- she said, in a tone of pleasure. “I see that yon tall yucca has gone in
-shadow sooner than it did yesterday.”
-
-And, “What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not know
-there were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught us some names;
-but they were hard, and I forgot them, We might name them for ourselves,
-if we lived here. They would be our relations.”
-
-And, “For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my Alessandro,
-and do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do
-nothing for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the while.”
-
-And, “Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, Alessandro.
-It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy,
-but never too glad, I think, when he lives with nothing between him and
-the sky, and the saints can see him every minute.”
-
-And, “I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the
-air, Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it
-because I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?”
-
-It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how
-full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent;
-it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable
-of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to
-say, and said less eloquently.
-
-After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, “You speak as the trees
-speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying
-anything!”
-
-This delighted Alessandro's very heart. “And you, Majella,” he
-exclaimed; “when you say that, you speak in the language of our people;
-you are as we are.”
-
-And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,--happier than she
-would have been made by any other praise or fondness.
-
-Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle.
-The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was
-already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who
-wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to
-all but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him
-away from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and
-summoned magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their
-command. Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off;
-but as she vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,--a
-magic golden apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other
-food. Day after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple;
-and yet, morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the
-golden fruit, still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it;
-and when the Fairy came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic
-boat, sailed away with her, and never was seen in his kingdom again. It
-was only an allegory, this legend,--a beautiful allegory, and true,--of
-love and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now
-growing strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and
-just as strength-giving.
-
-“My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?” said Ramona,
-studying his countenance with loving care. “I thought that night you
-would die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your eyes shine, and your
-hand is not hot! It is the blessed air; it has cured you, as it cured
-Felipe of the fever.”
-
-“If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella,” replied
-Alessandro. “I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw
-you. It is not the air;” and he looked at her with a gaze that said the
-rest.
-
-At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up
-Baba, saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon
-Alessandro had said to her: “To-night, Majella, we must go. There is not
-grass enough for another day. We must go while the horses are strong. I
-dare not lead them any farther down the canon to graze, for there is
-a ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one of the man's cows
-feeding near Baba.”
-
-Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the
-look on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled
-afresh in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and
-saw Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were
-again carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again
-the sense of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an
-unbearable burden on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his
-Majella?
-
-But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in
-such gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly
-rollicking with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan,
-too, was gay. He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing
-shade and cool water. He longed for sheep. He did not understand this
-inactivity. The puzzled look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than
-once, as he would come and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing
-his eyes intently on her face, as if he said in so many words, “What
-in the world are you about in this canon, and do not you ever intend to
-return home? Or if you will stay here, why not keep sheep? Do you not
-see that I have nothing to do?”
-
-“We must ride all night, Majella,” said Alessandro, “and lose no time.
-It is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow.”
-
-“Is it a canon?” asked Ramona, hopefully.
-
-“No,” he replied, “not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It
-is where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high
-hill.”
-
-“Will it be safe there?” she asked.
-
-“I think so,” he replied; “though not so safe as here. There is no such
-place as this in all the country.”
-
-“And then where shall we go next?” she asked.
-
-“That is very near Temecula,” he said. “We must go into Temecula, dear
-Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me
-money for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I would never go
-near the place again.”
-
-“I would like to see it, Alessandro,” she said gently.
-
-“Oh, no, no, Majella!” he cried; “you would not. It is terrible; the
-houses all unroofed,--all but my father's and Jose's. They were
-shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only walls.
-Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old woman ever
-had the strength; they said she was like a fury. She said nobody should
-ever live in those walls again; and she took a pole, and made a great
-hole in one side, and then she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all
-her might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be dreadful.”
-
-“Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?” she said
-timidly.
-
-“The saints forbid!” he said solemnly. “I think it would make me a
-murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I
-should kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of it!” he
-added, after a moment's silence; “it takes the strength all out of my
-blood again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!”
-
-And the word “Temecula” was not mentioned between them again until dusk
-the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along between low, wooded
-hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a green, marshy place, with
-a little thread of trickling water, at which their horses stopped, and
-drank thirstily; and Ramona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the
-distance. “Lights, Alessandro, lights!” she exclaimed, pointing to them.
-
-“Yes, Majella,” he replied, “it is Temecula,” and springing off his pony
-he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: “I have
-been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be done here. I
-do not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If men have been sent
-out to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is the place where
-everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare not have you go there, Majella;
-yet I must go. The only way I can get any money is from Mr. Hartsel.”
-
-“I must wait somewhere while you go!” said Ramona, her heart beating as
-she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as
-the sea. “That is the only safe thing, Alessandro.”
-
-“I think so too,” he said; “but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not
-you be afraid?”
-
-“Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the
-other.”
-
-“If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to you,
-Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe home,--he and
-Capitan.”
-
-Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility.
-Alessandro had thought of everything. “What could happen?” she cried.
-
-“I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the
-horse,” he said.
-
-“But you would not have the horse with you,” she said. “How could they
-take you?”
-
-“That mightn't make any difference,” replied Alessandro. “They might
-take me, to make me tell where the horse was.”
-
-“Oh, Alessandro,” sobbed Ramona, “what shall we do!” Then in another
-second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, “Alessandro, I know what
-I will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I
-not be safest there?”
-
-“Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?” exclaimed Alessandro.
-
-“Why not?” she said. “It is not the dead that will harm us. They would
-all help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there while you
-go; and if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr. Hartsel's
-after you. If there are men of the Senora's there, they will know me;
-they will not dare to touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish
-them. I will not be afraid. And if they are ordered to take Baba, they
-can have him; we can walk when the pony is tired.”
-
-Her confidence was contagious. “My wood-dove has in her breast the heart
-of the lion,” said Alessandro, fondly. “We will do as she says. She
-is wise;” and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of the
-graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, with one small gate
-of wooden paling. As they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, “The thieves
-have taken the gate!”
-
-“What could they have wanted with that?” said Ramona
-
-“To burn,” he said doggedly, “It was wood; but it was very little. They
-might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!”
-
-As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the
-graves. Ramona started.
-
-“Fear nothing,” whispered Alessandro. “It must be one of our people. I
-am glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was
-the corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her;” and leaving
-Ramona at the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in
-the Luiseno language, “Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I,
-Alessandro!”
-
-It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was
-spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her
-husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the
-Americans were there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her,
-Alessandro returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side,
-he laid her feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: “Majella, I have told
-her all. She cannot speak a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she
-says, that you have come with me, and she will stay close by your side
-till I come back.”
-
-Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all
-she could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she
-could see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less
-needful to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona
-was pitying her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her
-from the saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face.
-Again she drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to
-the corner from which she had come. Ramona understood. “She wants to
-show me her husband's grave,” she thought. “She does not like to be away
-from it. I will go with her.”
-
-Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head
-assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed
-her. The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked
-by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew
-each inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly
-fell, and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities
-under his feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled
-earth of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona
-to the edge of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both
-hands on her heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into
-weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast,
-to show her sympathy. Carmena did not weep. She was long past that;
-and she felt for the moment lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden
-sympathy of this stranger,--this girl like herself, yet so different,
-so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena was sure she must be. Had the saints
-sent her from heaven to Alessandro? What did it mean? Carmena's bosom
-was heaving with the things she longed to say and to ask; but all she
-could do was to press Ramona's hand again and again, and occasionally
-lay her soft cheek upon it.
-
-“Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the
-graveyard?” thought Ramona. “What a comfort to this poor heart-broken
-thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all fear. Holy Virgin!
-but I had died of terror here all alone. Not that the dead would harm
-me; but simply from the vast, silent plain, and the gloom.”
-
-Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate.
-Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect
-to find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting
-for Alessandro to come.
-
-After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a
-quick run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the
-graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near,
-he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. “A light in our
-house!” he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. “Those cursed robbers
-have gone into it to live already!” His blood seemed turning to fire.
-Ramona would not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was
-full of implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It
-was gone. His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the
-wall. Ah! in the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for
-him. Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one
-hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who were these
-dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see their faces
-burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But
-he must. He would see the new home-life already begun on the grave of
-his. Stealthily creeping under the window from which the light shone, he
-listened. He heard children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the
-voice of a man, gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was
-evidently the supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were
-on a level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in.
-
-A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it
-a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby,
-sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for
-its supper. The room was in great confusion,--beds made on the floor,
-open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in the
-corners; evidently there were new-comers into the house. The window
-was open by an inch. It had warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly
-Alessandro recollected how he had put off from day to day the planing
-of that window to make it shut tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could
-hear all that was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a
-sensitive one, and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance
-of a brute,--of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute
-creation, making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which
-never one of them possessed?
-
-“It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!” said the
-woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of
-what she said. He listened eagerly. “When will the next wagon get here?”
-
-“I don't know,” growled her husband. “There's been a slide in that
-cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days
-yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's
-here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got
-everything.”
-
-“But, John,” she replied, “I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to
-put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything.”
-
-“You can grumble, I take notice,” he answered. “That's about all you
-women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead
-in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of
-Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!”
-
-The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment.
-Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she
-exclaimed, “Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take
-their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know,
-if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this
-way!”
-
-“Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!” cried the man.
-He was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at
-him half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the children,
-began feeding the baby. At that second the other child looked up, and
-catching sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, cried out, “There's
-a man there! There, at the window!”
-
-Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had
-he imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to
-this mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With
-a fearful oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, “One of those damned
-Indians, I expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day. We'll have to
-shoot two or three of 'em yet, before we're rid of 'em!” and he took his
-gun down from the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it
-in his hand.
-
-“Oh, don't fire, father, don't.” cried the woman. “They'll come and
-murder us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!” and she pulled him
-back by the sleeve.
-
-Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and
-stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat
-like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would
-have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him.
-
-“I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father,” persisted the
-woman. “Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody
-there. Come in; supper's gettin' all cold.”
-
-“Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round
-here,” said the fiend. “If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't
-know what hurt him;” and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken,
-unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away harmlessly into
-the empty darkness. Hearkening a few moments, and hearing no cry, he
-hiccuped, “Mi-i-issed him that time,” and went in to his supper.
-
-Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own
-folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of
-waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that
-desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,--sliding
-along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the
-house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full
-speed for Hartsel's.
-
-Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere
-except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it
-gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region.
-Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank
-at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind
-within a radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its
-kind within a much wider radius.
-
-Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow--when he was sober; but as that
-condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he sometimes came
-near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody was afraid
-of him,--wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. “It was only a
-question of time and occasion,” they said, “Hartsel's killing somebody
-sooner or later;” and it looked as if the time were drawing near
-fast. But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful;
-entertaining, too, to a degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his
-chair till small hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk.
-How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have
-told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and phases
-of the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. Here, in
-this Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the country. He liked
-the wild life, and, for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good word
-he spoke for them to travellers who believed no good of the race, and
-evidently listened with polite incredulity when he would say, as he
-often did: “I've never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do all
-their trading with me. There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred
-dollars. If they can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die,
-their relations will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till
-they've got it all paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer,
-maybe, or baskets or mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're
-honester 'n the general run of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans
-that are as poor's they are.”
-
-Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still
-lower flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the
-kitchen, and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough
-planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which was one great
-dormitory well provided with beds on the floor, but with no other
-article of bedroom furniture. They who slept in this loft had no
-fastidious standards of personal luxury. These two buildings, with some
-half-dozen out-houses of one sort and another, stood in an enclosure
-surrounded by a low white picket fence, which gave to the place a
-certain home-like look, spite of the neglected condition of the ground,
-which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with weeds and wild grass. A few
-plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots and tin cans around the
-door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew whether they made the place
-look less desolate or more so. But they were token of a woman's
-hand, and of a nature which craved something more than the unredeemed
-wilderness around her afforded.
-
-A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the
-store. Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and
-he heard loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around
-to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened
-the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but
-Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one
-dim candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and
-frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the
-men who were noisily rollicking in the other house.
-
-Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs.
-Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to
-find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not
-recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in
-his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the
-place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying,
-and anything else he could do.
-
-“Run, Ramon,” she said, “and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so
-dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all
-these men to cook for;” then turning to the table, she began cutting
-her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who
-silently rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later,
-Alessandro re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would
-have cost poor old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing
-it down, on the hearth, said, “Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?”
- she gave a scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. “Why, who--” she
-began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she
-continued, “Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old
-Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga.”
-
-“In Pachanga!” Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to
-Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart
-felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had
-dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and
-he did not raise his eyes as he replied; “I have been in Pachanga. My
-father is dead. I have buried him there.”
-
-“Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?” cried the kindly woman, coming closer to
-Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. “I heard he was sick.”
- She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the
-time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two
-days she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that
-she need not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words.
-She was a Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood
-ran in her veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever
-probable now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his
-shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered!
-How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb
-bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring!
-
-“You were away all summer, Alessandro?” she said at last, turning back
-to her work.
-
-“Yes,” he said: “at the Senora Moreno's.”
-
-“So I heard,” she said. “That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her
-son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here
-with a drove of sheep once.”
-
-“Ay, he is a man now,” said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands
-again.
-
-“Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak,” thought Mrs.
-Hartsel. “I'll just let him alone;” and she spoke no more for some
-moments.
-
-Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized
-him; at last he said wearily: “I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr.
-Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store.”
-
-“Yes,” she said, “a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the company
-that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two days. Oh,
-Alessandro,” she continued, bethinking herself, “Jim's got your violin
-here; Jose brought it.”
-
-“Yes, I know it,” answered Alessandro. “Jose told me; and that was one
-thing I stopped for.”
-
-“I'll run and get it,” she exclaimed.
-
-“No,” said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. “I do not want it. I
-thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not mine; it
-was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My father said it
-would bring a great deal of money. It is very old.”
-
-“Indeed it is,” she replied; “one of those men in there was looking at
-it last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe Jim
-when he told him about its having come from the Mission.”
-
-“Does he play? Will he buy it?” cried Alessandro.
-
-“I don't know; I'll call Jim,” she said; and running out she looked in
-at the other door, saying, “Jim! Jim!”
-
-Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face,
-her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance.
-Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises,
-“Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning.”
-
-“Till morning!” A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. “I
-can't!” he cried. “I must go on to-night.”
-
-“Why, what for?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief
-second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything
-to her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and
-Ramona's, the better.
-
-“I must be in San Diego to-morrow,” he said.
-
-“Got work there?” she said.
-
-“Yes; that is, in San Pasquale,” he said; “and I ought to have been
-there three days ago.”
-
-Mrs. Hartsel mused. “Jim can't do anything to-night,” she said; “that's
-certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it.”
-
-Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him.
-He could not face one of these Americans who were “coming in” to his
-valley. Mrs. Hartsel understood.
-
-“I'll tell you, Alessandro,” said the kindly woman, “I'll give you what
-money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell the violin
-to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back out of that, and
-when you're along this way again you can have the rest. Jim'll make as
-good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good friend to all of you,
-Alessandro, when he's himself.”
-
-“I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man
-in this country,” said Alessandro. “He's about the only white man I do
-trust!”
-
-Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat.
-Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. “Humph! Got more'n I thought
-I had,” she said. “I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I
-knew Jim'd be drunk before night.”
-
-Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance
-of those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs.
-Hartsel counted them out on the table,--one, two, three, four, bright
-five-dollar pieces.
-
-“That is as much as I dare take,” said Alessandro, when she put down
-the fourth. “Will you trust me for so much?” he added sadly. “You know I
-have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some
-work to do.”
-
-The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. “It's a shame!” she said,--“a
-shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, since it
-happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? Yes, indeed.
-Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of our lives.”
-
-“I'm glad he is dead,” said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into
-his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. “But he was murdered, Mrs.
-Hartsel,--murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into
-him.”
-
-“That's true.” she exclaimed vehemently. “I say so too; and so was Jose.
-That's just what I said at the time,--that bullets would not be half so
-inhuman!”
-
-The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room
-burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling,
-laughing, reeling into the kitchen.
-
-“Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian
-here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!” stammered Jim, making a lurch
-towards the stove. The men behind caught him and saved him. Eyeing the
-group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her
-body, said: “Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will
-bring in your supper immediately. It is all ready.”
-
-One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back
-into the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the
-table and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs.
-
-“Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro,” whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as
-she passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and
-contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. “You'd better go. There's no knowing
-what they'll do next.”
-
-“Are you not afraid?” he said in a low tone.
-
-“No!” she said. “I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's
-round somewhere,--he and the bull-pups; if worse comes to worse, I can
-call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are always the worst to get
-drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!”
-
-“And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father,
-and Jose, and Carmena's baby!” thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly
-back towards the graveyard. “And Father Salvierderra says, God is good.
-It must be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!”
-
-But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell
-long on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too
-loudly. Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted
-handkerchief, he thought: “Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will
-buy food for many days for my Majella and for Baba!”
-
-
-
-
-XVIII
-
-EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona
-would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the
-graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer,
-and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at
-Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her
-thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected
-upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have
-made. Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes
-which might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was
-sitting, helpless, in the midnight darkness,--Alessandro seized, tied,
-treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to
-terrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she would
-ride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if she
-would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word,
-but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's meaning, “I must go! It is too
-long! I cannot wait here!” Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, and
-said in the San Luiseno tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but which
-yet somehow conveyed Carmena's meaning, “O beloved lady, you must not
-go! Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He
-will come.” The word “Alessandro” was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said,
-wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. It
-was strange how Ramona, who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid
-of nothing, so long as Alessandro was by her side, became timorous and
-wretched the instant he was lost to her sight. When she first heard his
-steps coming, she quivered with terror lest they might not be his. The
-next second she knew; and with a glad cry, “Alessandro! Alessandro!” she
-bounded to him, dropping Baba's reins.
-
-Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding
-the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words.
-“How she loves Alessandro!” thought the widowed Carmena. “Will they
-leave him alive to stay with her? It is better not to love!” But there
-was no bitter envy in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she
-went desolate. All of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro.
-They had looked forward to his being over them in his father's place.
-They knew his goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.
-
-“Majella, you tremble,” said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around
-her. “You have feared! Yet you were not alone.” He glanced at Carmena's
-motionless figure, standing by Baba.
-
-“No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!” replied Ramona;
-“and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one
-there?”
-
-“No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just
-come from Pachanga,” he answered.
-
-“Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,”
- continued Ramona. “But she told me to wait.”
-
-“She told you!” repeated Alessandro. “How did you understand her
-speech?”
-
-“I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?” replied Ramona. “She spoke
-in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not
-say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said,
-and you would soon come.”
-
-Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. “Did you say that?” he asked.
-
-“Yes,” answered Carmena.
-
-“You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words,” he said
-delightedly. “She is one of us.”
-
-“Yes,” said Carmena, gravely, “she is one of us.” Then, taking Ramona's
-hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire
-prophecy, “One of us, Alessandro! one of us!” And as she gazed after
-their retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the
-darkness, she repeated the words again to herself,--“One of us! one of
-us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!” and she crept back to her
-husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn.
-
-The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them
-directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting
-or being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to
-the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past
-the place where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and
-putting his hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of
-ruined walls. “This was Antonio's house, Majella,” he whispered. “I wish
-every house in the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was
-right. The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella,” he went
-on, his whisper growing thick with rage. “That was what kept me so long.
-I was looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I
-should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all
-dead!”
-
-An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. “Living in
-your house!” she said. “You saw them?”
-
-“Yes,” he said; “the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the
-man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought
-they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired.
-That was what kept me so long.”
-
-Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground.
-A few steps farther, and he tripped again. “There is something caught
-round his foot, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It keeps moving.”
-
-Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, “It's a
-stake,--and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what--” The rest of
-his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run swiftly
-on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and there
-stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking
-under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's
-nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly
-a second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony,
-and striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled
-the black horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his
-voice: “My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed
-have helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a
-stake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will
-gallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this
-cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a
-trail they will never find!”
-
-Like the wind galloped Benito,--Alessandro half lying on his back,
-stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy:
-which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And
-neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their
-feet! This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers.
-Not in all the California herds could be found two superber horses
-than Benito and Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of
-Alessandro. Ramona was half terrified as she heard him still talking,
-talking to Benito. For an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito
-and Alessandro knew every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had
-descended into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined
-sharply to the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. “Can you
-follow, dearest Majella?” he cried.
-
-“Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?” she retorted,
-pressing on closely.
-
-But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he
-would have given Ramona trouble.
-
-“There is only a little, rough like this, dear,” called Alessandro, as
-he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. “Good!” he
-cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. “Good! Majella! We have got the
-two best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight
-comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go
-together splendidly.”
-
-After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of
-the canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from
-underbrush. “Now,” said Alessandro, “I can go from here to San Diego by
-paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight.”
-
-Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank
-it in with delight. “I taste salt in the air, Alessandro,” she cried.
-
-“Yes, it is the sea,” he said. “This canon leads straight to the sea. I
-wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it
-is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play;
-and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the
-green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like
-wine in one's head.”
-
-“Cannot we go there?” she said longingly. “Would it not be safe?”
-
-“I dare not,” he answered regretfully. “Not now, Majella; for on the
-shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming.”
-
-“Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and
-there is no danger?” she asked.
-
-“Yes, Majella,” he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, “Will
-a time ever come when there will be no danger?”
-
-The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a
-succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down
-many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and
-rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little
-more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their
-mouths they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to
-a quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach
-before morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and
-commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he
-had found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he
-believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into
-San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale
-that same night. “All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,”
- he thought; “but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have
-been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore.”
-
-It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been
-cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss
-filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As
-Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out
-to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her
-into a fairy-land.
-
-“What a beautiful world!” she cried; and riding up so close to Benito
-that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: “Do you
-not think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful
-world as this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?”
-
-Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was
-not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward
-from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the
-light-house on the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few
-moments more it would be day. “No, Majella, not here.” he said. “We must
-not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this
-upper coast-line as far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees
-with all the speed we can make.”
-
-It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the
-shelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still
-remained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the
-long drought,--a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with
-relish in each other's company.
-
-“They like each other, those two,” said Ramona, laughing, as she watched
-them. “They will be friends.”
-
-“Ay,” said Alessandro, also smiling. “Horses are friends, like men, and
-can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's
-mare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her;
-and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a
-time I have laughed to see it.”
-
-“Know you the priest at San Diego?” asked Ramona.
-
-“Not well,” replied Alessandro. “He came seldom to Temecula when I was
-there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from
-San Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in
-great terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there
-would not have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent
-all his people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but
-he would have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy.
-It was no use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst
-thing, my Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can
-we do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never
-been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the
-San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the
-starving poor.”
-
-“A priest!” ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.
-
-“Ay! a priest!” replied Alessandro. “They are not all good,--not like
-Father Salvierderra.”
-
-“Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!” exclaimed
-Ramona, involuntarily.
-
-Alessandro looked distressed. “It would have been much more danger,
-Majella,” he said, “and I had no knowledge of work I could do there.”
-
-His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one
-feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. “Oh, this is
-much better, really,” she said. “I did not mean what I said. It is only
-because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will
-tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?”
-
-“There is a Santa Inez Indian I know,” replied Alessandro, “who comes
-down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes
-to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa
-Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's
-house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is
-always begging me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not
-two days from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara.”
-
-“I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,” sighed Ramona, “when
-the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would
-be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like
-palaces, and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them;
-thousands and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful.”
-
-“The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,” replied
-Alessandro. “My father says that at some of them were dreadful things,
-when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father
-Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they
-would all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it.
-And when he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken,
-and the Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you
-and I have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen
-up to keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for
-Mexico, and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over
-this same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and
-my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with
-him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my
-father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things
-of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told me the
-story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed
-out to the ship in a little boat; and not much more than on board was
-he, my father standing like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved
-him so, when, lo! he heard a great crying, and shouting, and trampling
-of horses' feet, and there came galloping down to the water's edge three
-hundred of the Indians from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the
-Father had gone to San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night
-on his track, to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship,
-and told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring
-the very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, and
-swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on board and go
-with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, blessing them, and
-saying farewell, with the tears running on his face; and one of the
-Indians--how they never knew--made shift to climb up on the chains
-and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they let him stay, and
-he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he was all his life
-sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same thing; but he
-was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so unhappy at the
-Father's going.”
-
-“Was it here, in this very harbor?” asked Ramona, in breathless
-interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a
-broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.
-
-“Ay, just there he sailed,--as that ship goes now,” he exclaimed, as a
-white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. “But the ship
-lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here.
-It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high
-lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they
-loved it.”
-
-“But, Alessandro,” continued Ramona, “were there really bad men at the
-other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?”
-
-“Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was
-too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has
-seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right
-that one man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel
-Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a
-whole band of them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains,
-he went after them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the
-pieces were strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to
-know them by again,--by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno,
-who came over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the
-Mission herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions;
-some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always
-had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they preferred,
-Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know
-anything; but do you not think they had the right?”
-
-“It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature,” replied the
-pious Ramona. “That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason
-the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians
-listen. But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe
-it?”
-
-“The old woman laughed when she told it,” he answered. “She said it was
-a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who
-tried to crop my ears that way.”
-
-“Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?” asked Ramona.
-
-“No, Majella. It would not be polite,” said Alessandro.
-
-“Well, I don't believe it,” replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. “I don't
-believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things.”
-
-The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out,
-and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to
-resume their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego,
-where Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San
-Luis Rey, and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it.
-
-But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they
-reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low
-adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio
-days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those
-occupied by the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite
-side of the way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,--a
-poverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed,
-decorated by a few coarse pictures and by broken sconces of
-looking-glass, rescued in their dilapidated condition from the
-Mission buildings, now gone utterly to ruin. In these had been put
-handle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap candles dimly lighted
-the room. Everything about it was in unison with the atmosphere of the
-place,--the most profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Here
-was the spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra,
-began his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the
-wilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this very
-beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, nursing
-the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, from the
-pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he baptized
-his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And the only
-traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes were a
-pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less than
-another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping of
-that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her
-graves.
-
-Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a
-Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been
-from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place.
-He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he
-could have been,--a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had made
-him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded the
-sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight or
-to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation.
-The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,--neither the look nor the
-tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and
-quick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his
-priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which
-had made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as
-he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds
-of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old,
-into the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in
-their shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after
-band, that he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the
-Government officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made
-equally bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them,
-from officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself
-to greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened,
-and indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic
-temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,--had said, “It is of no use;
-I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!” and settling down
-into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and Irish
-congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort to
-do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or twice
-a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were brought
-to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard,
-with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp than
-the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, he
-would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke
-by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor,
-brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress.
-
-A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine
-brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to
-see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San
-Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone
-this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it
-would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church on this site.
-Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to
-the demands of the living. To build a church on the ground where Father
-Junipero first trod and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic
-could be indifferent; but there were other and more pressing claims to
-be met first. This was right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only
-a few feet high, was a sore one to Father Gaspara,--a daily cross, which
-he did not find grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year
-in and year out, in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic
-climate.
-
-“Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!” exclaimed
-Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. “Father Gaspara must
-be there;” and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained
-window. “A marriage, Majella,--a marriage!” he cried, hastily returning.
-“This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.”
-
-When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had
-just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was
-waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard,
-where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom
-he hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had
-been neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The
-Father was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he
-regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the
-least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had
-never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who
-had supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked
-at the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first
-glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.
-
-“What is all this!” he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he
-exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, “Woman, are you an
-Indian?”
-
-“Yes, Father,” answered Ramona, gently. “My mother was an Indian.”
-
-“Ah! half-breed!” thought Father Gaspara. “It is strange how sometimes
-one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no
-common creature;” and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy
-on his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,--the other couple, a
-middle-aged Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing
-quietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly,
-impassive faces, as if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry.
-
-The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms,
-locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter
-reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's
-interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769,
-and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself.
-
-As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the
-Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other,
-Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, “Will you ride,
-dear? It is but a step.”
-
-“No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,” she replied; and
-Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm,
-they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was
-still more puzzled.
-
-“He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady,” he mused. “What does it
-mean? Who are they?”
-
-Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been
-used to associations far superior to any which he had known in his
-Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that
-with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in
-his parish. When they entered his house, he again regarded them both
-attentively. Ramona wore on her head the usual black shawl of the
-Mexican women. There was nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in
-her figure or face. In the dim light of the one candle,--Father Gaspara
-allowed himself no luxuries,--the exquisite coloring of her skin and the
-deep blue of her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure
-and dignified bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as
-fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke
-better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians.
-
-“Where are you from?” said the Father, as he held his pen poised in
-hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
-
-“Temecula, Father,” replied Alessandro.
-
-Father Gaspara dropped his pen. “The village the Americans drove out the
-other day?” he cried.
-
-“Yes, Father.”
-
-Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement,
-as usual, in pacing the floor. “Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all
-over,” he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him
-their names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not
-knowing if all were ended or not. “A burning shame! The most dastardly
-thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken of God!” cried the Father.
-“I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.” Then,
-coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: “The paper said
-that the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that
-the sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?”
-
-“Yes, Father,” replied Alessandro.
-
-The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. “What are
-you going to do?” he said. “Where have you all gone? There were two
-hundred in your village the last time I was there.”
-
-“Some have gone over into Pachanga,” replied Alessandro, “some to San
-Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.”
-
-“Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!” stormed Father
-Gaspara.
-
-Alessandro did not understand the word “philosophy,” but he knew what
-the Father meant. “Yes, Father,” he said doggedly. “It is now twenty-one
-days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done.”
-
-Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce,
-black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry
-invectives.
-
-“The United States Government will suffer for it!” he continued. “It is
-a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see;
-they will be visited with a curse,--a curse in their borders; their sons
-and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these vain
-words? My son, tell me your names again;” and he seated himself once
-more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open.
-
-After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. “And the woman's?”
- he said.
-
-Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply,
-“Majella.” What name should he give more?
-
-Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, “Majella. Majella Phail
-is my name.”
-
-She pronounced the word “Phail,” slowly. It was new to her. She had
-never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to
-whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two
-syllables, and so wrote it.
-
-The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any
-one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the
-woman married under the name of “Majella Fayeel”?
-
-“No, no! Put up your money, son,” said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro
-began to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied.
-“Put up your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would
-the Church had money to give you. Where are you going now?”
-
-“To San Pasquale, Father.”
-
-“Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper,” said
-Father Gaspara. “He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it
-may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a
-piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing.”
-
-Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. “How is that, Father?”
- he said. “I do not know.”
-
-“Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach,” replied
-Father Gaspara; “and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motion
-also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked
-out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you
-and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell;
-but I myself am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son!
-Farewell, daughter!” he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again
-getting the better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down
-to his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but
-after supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they
-returned again, and lingered in his thoughts,--lingered strangely, it
-seemed to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was
-something unusual about the woman. “I shall hear of them again, some
-day,” he thought. And he thought rightly.
-
-
-
-
-XIX
-
-AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly
-through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road,
-leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and
-they forded it without difficulty.
-
-“I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many
-days,” said Alessandro; “but that was in spring.”
-
-“Then it is well we came not at that time,” said Ramona, “All the times
-have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,--the dark nights, and the
-streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!” and she
-pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the
-sky. “Not big enough to do us any harm, however,” she added. “But, dear
-Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now?”
-
-“I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have been
-all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel
-that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should come there
-asking for us, she would understand, I think, and keep a still tongue.
-She would keep harm from us if she could.”
-
-Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa,
-or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve
-miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow
-valley,--the Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of
-their few abortive efforts to repel the American forces.
-
-“Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans,
-Majella,” said Alessandro. “I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked
-up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and
-thought if there should come another war against the Americans, I
-would fire them again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe think there is
-any likelihood that his people will rise against them any more? If they
-would, they would have all the Indians to help them, now. It would be a
-mercy if they might be driven out of the land, Majella.”
-
-“Yes,” sighed Majella. “But there is no hope. I have heard the Senora
-speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great
-riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they
-will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of
-their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for
-hate, Alessandro,--for hate, or in anger; never for gold.”
-
-“Indians, also,” replied Alessandro. “Never one Indian killed another,
-yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella,
-they are dogs!”
-
-Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage
-on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred
-which would never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him
-impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty.
-
-“They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “There
-must be some that are honest; do you not think so?”
-
-“Where are they, then,” he cried fiercely,--“the ones who are good?
-Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in
-disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished them. If
-there are Americans who are good, who will not cheat and kill, why do
-they not send after these robbers and punish them? And how is it that
-they make laws which cheat? It was the American law which took Temecula
-away from us, and gave it to those men! The law was on the side of the
-thieves. No, Majella, it is a people that steals! That is their name,--a
-people that steals, and that kills for money. Is not that a good name
-for a great people to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea,
-they are so many?”
-
-“That is what the Senora says,” answered Ramona. “She says they are all
-thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next will come
-more of them, with new laws, to take away more of her land. She had once
-more than twice what she has now, Alessandro.”
-
-“Yes,” he replied; “I know it. My father has told me. He was with Father
-Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his to
-the sea,--all that land we rode over the second night, Majella.”
-
-“Yes,” she said, “all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever
-saying: 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from San
-Pasquale, Alessandro?”
-
-“No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has
-hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it;
-and I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That is
-the way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will be a
-poor place for my Majella,” he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at
-ease. Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear.
-
-“No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there,
-rather than the most beautiful place in the world where you are not,
-Alessandro,” she said.
-
-“But my Majella loves things that are beautiful,” said Alessandro. “She
-has lived like a queen.”
-
-“Oh, Alessandro,” merrily laughed Ramona, “how little you know of
-the way queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, only
-comfortable; and any house you will build, I can make as comfortable
-as that was; it is nothing but trouble to have one so large as the
-Senora's. Margarita used to be tired to death, sweeping all those
-rooms in which nobody lived except the blessed old San Luis Rey saints.
-Alessandro, if we could have had just one statue, either Saint Francis
-or the Madonna, to bring back to our house! That is what I would like
-better than all other things in the world. It is beautiful to sleep with
-the Madonna close to your bed. She speaks often to you in dreams.”
-
-Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered
-these words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of
-some other sphere had come to dwell by his side. “I cannot find how to
-feel towards the saints as you do, my Majella,” he said. “I am afraid of
-them. It must be because they love you, and do not love us. That is what
-I believe, Majella. I believe they are displeased with us, and no longer
-make mention of us in heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the
-saints were ever doing,--praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and
-Jesus. It is not possible, you see, that they could have been praying
-for us, and yet such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do
-not know how it is my people have displeased them.”
-
-“I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of
-the saints, Alessandro,” replied Ramona, earnestly. “He has often told
-me that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many times from
-being wretched because the Senora would not love me. And, Alessandro,”
- she went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, “even if nothing but
-misfortune comes to people, that does not prove that the saints do not
-love them; for when the saints were on earth themselves, look what they
-suffered: martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at what holy
-Saint Catharine endured, and the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what
-happens to us here in this world that we can tell if the saints love us,
-or if we will see the Blessed Virgin.”
-
-“How can we tell, then?” he asked.
-
-“By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro,” she replied; “just as I
-knew all the time, when you did not come,--I knew that you loved me.
-I knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter what
-happens. If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And you,--you
-will know that I love you, the same.”
-
-“Yes,” said Alessandro, reflectively, “that is true. But, Majella, it is
-not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a person
-that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand.”
-
-“No, not quite,” said Ramona; “not quite, about a saint; but one can
-for the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my
-room at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I was little
-I have told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan what I should
-bring away with us. She reminded me of many things I had forgotten,
-except for her.”
-
-“Did you hear her speak?” said Alessandro, awe-stricken.
-
-“Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words,” replied Ramona,
-confidently. “You see when you sleep in the room with her, it is very
-different from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh, I could
-never be very unhappy with her in my room!”
-
-“I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella,” cried Alessandro,
-with sacrilegious warmth.
-
-“Holy Virgin!” cried Ramona, “never speak such a word. You would be
-struck dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the thought was a
-sin.”
-
-“There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house,” said
-Alessandro. “It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of
-it,--if it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things
-to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look.”
-
-“Again!” cried Ramona. “What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will
-not leave me, Alessandro?”
-
-At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always
-vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed
-from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were
-on wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child,
-crying out in alarm, and clinging to the hand.
-
-“After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I must
-go, to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. There is the
-raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my father. Majella
-will like to lie on that. My father believed it had great virtue.”
-
-“Like that you made for Felipe?” she asked.
-
-“Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so
-large as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There
-are chairs, too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine
-as those on your veranda at home. They were given to my father. And
-music-books,--beautiful parchment books! Oh, I hope those are not lost,
-Majella! If Jose had lived, he would have looked after it all. But in
-the confusion, all the things belonging to the village were thrown into
-wagons together, and no one knew where anything was. But all the people
-knew my father's chairs and the books of the music. If the Americans did
-not steal them, everything will be safe. My people do not steal.
-There was never but one thief in our village, and my father had him so
-whipped, he ran away and never came back. I heard he was living in San
-Jacinto, and was a thief yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think
-if it is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will take it out,
-Majella.”
-
-“Like the Americans,” she said, half laughing, but with tears in the
-voice. “Whipping would not cure them.”
-
-It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of
-the hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two
-such crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the
-three valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of
-contour than any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges
-of high mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was
-overcast and gray.
-
-“If it were spring, this would mean rain,” said Alessandro; “but it
-cannot rain, I think, now.”
-
-“No!” laughed Ramona, “not till we get our house done. Will it be of
-adobe, Alessandro?”
-
-“Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are
-very comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build one of
-adobe.”
-
-“Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not
-let you, Alessandro, build another.”
-
-Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower
-temperament and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she
-were all of a sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside
-the pale of human life,--outside and above it.
-
-“You speak as the birds sing, my Majella,” he said slowly. “It was well
-to name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you
-have. She says only that she loves and waits.”
-
-“I say that, too, Alessandro!” replied Ramona, reaching out both her
-arms towards him.
-
-The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and
-Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side;
-and Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of
-the sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice,
-and answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop
-when his mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped
-now, and it was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again.
-
-“Majella! Majella!” cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in
-his, he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, “if the
-saints would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like
-those she was telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved her!
-But what can Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella gives all;
-Alessandro gives nothing!” and he bowed his forehead on her hands,
-before he put them back gently on Baba's neck.
-
-Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this
-distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? “Alessandro can
-do one thing,” she said, insensibly falling into his mode of
-speaking,--“one thing for his Majella: never, never say that he has
-nothing to give her. When he says that, he makes Majella a liar; for
-she has said that he is all the world to her,--he himself all the world
-which she desires. Is Majella a liar?”
-
-But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half
-anguish, that Alessandro replied: “Majella cannot lie. Majella is like
-the saints. Alessandro is hers.”
-
-When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The
-vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat
-baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning
-these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating
-the yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women
-were sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in
-the village now; two large bands were away at work,--one at the autumn
-sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San
-Bernardino.
-
-In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or
-of cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men
-were ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles
-of the tule reeds.
-
-“These are some of the Temecula people,” said Alessandro; “they
-are building themselves new houses here. See those piles of bundles
-darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought
-from Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!” he cried joyfully, as a man,
-well-mounted, who had been riding from point to point in the village,
-came galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he
-flung himself from his horse. Alessandro did the same, and both running
-swiftly towards each other till they met, they embraced silently.
-Ramona, riding up, held out her hand, saying, as she did so, “Ysidro?”
-
-Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro
-saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, “Who
-is this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?”
-
-“My wife!” answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. “We were married
-last night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora
-Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have land for me, as you
-have said.”
-
-What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and
-courteous welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, “It
-is well. There is room. You are welcome.” But when he heard the soft
-Spanish syllables in which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro,
-translating her words to him, said, “Majel speaks only in the Spanish
-tongue, but she will learn ours,” a look of disquiet passed over his
-countenance. His heart feared for Alessandro, and he said, “Is she,
-then, not Indian? Whence got she the name of Majel?”
-
-A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. “Indian on
-the mother's side!” said Alessandro, “and she belongs in heart to our
-people. She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of the Virgin,
-Ysidro. She will help us. The name Majel I have given her, for she is
-like the wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her old name down forever, to
-bear this new name in our tongue.”
-
-And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,--this and her
-smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children were not
-afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at sight of her
-noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality they associated
-only with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, what was more,
-saw by her every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If
-Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Ramona would have been
-profoundly impressed and touched, could she have heard them speaking
-among themselves about her; wondering how it had come about that she,
-so beautiful, and nurtured in the Moreno house, of which they all knew,
-should be Alessandro's loving wife. It must be, they thought in their
-simplicity, that the saints had sent it as an omen of good to the Indian
-people. Toward night they came, bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged
-woman in the village to look at her. She wished to see the beautiful
-stranger before the sun went down, they said, because she was now so old
-she believed each night that before morning her time would come to die.
-They also wished to hear the old woman's verdict on her. When Alessandro
-saw them coming, he understood, and made haste to explain it to Ramona.
-While he was yet speaking, the procession arrived, and the aged woman in
-her strange litter was placed silently on the ground in front of Ramona,
-who was sitting under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had borne her
-withdrew, and seated themselves a few paces off. Alessandro spoke
-first. In a few words he told the old woman of Ramona's birth, of their
-marriage, and of her new name of adoption; then he said, “Take her hand,
-dear Majella, if you feel no fear.”
-
-There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand
-outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender
-reverence: “Say to her for me, Alessandro,” she said, “that I bow down
-to her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is the will of
-God that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be worthy of such
-reverence as these people all feel for her.”
-
-Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this
-speech, so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur
-of pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made
-no reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her
-hand.
-
-“Tell her,” continued Ramona, “that I ask if there is anything I can do
-for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me.”
-
-“It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,”
- thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue.
-
-Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. “And say
-that you will be her son,” added Ramona.
-
-Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had
-waited. Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: “It is well; I am
-your mother. The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall
-dance when you come. The daughter looks on her mother's face each day. I
-will go;” and making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried
-to her house.
-
-The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people
-seemed to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not
-herself sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so
-moved,--to know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among
-primitive peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and
-grandly dramatic; but she was none the less stirred by them, because she
-could not analyze or explain them.
-
-“I will go and see her every day,” she said; “she shall be like my
-mother, whom I never saw.”
-
-“We must both go each day,” said Alessandro. “What we have said is a
-solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it.”
-
-Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising
-ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule
-reeds and one of adobe,--the latter a comfortable little house of two
-rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale.
-The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near
-throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs
-shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was
-fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with
-adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes
-a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses,
-were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle
-weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor
-granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona
-thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw.
-
-“Are they hard to make?” she asked. “Can you make them, Alessandro? I
-shall want many.”
-
-“All you want, my Majella,” replied Alessandro. “We will go together to
-get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. It is only
-two days to make a large one.”
-
-“No. Do not buy one,” she exclaimed. “I wish everything in our house
-to be made by ourselves.” In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously
-striking one of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of
-existence.
-
-The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky
-chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having
-gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work;
-this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own
-should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses
-joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy
-Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove.
-It looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: “Can
-Majella live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long;
-there are adobes already made.”
-
-His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, “I think it will be
-very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in
-the dove-cote!”
-
-“Majel!” exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said.
-
-Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on
-a cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once
-belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, “1790,” on
-its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had
-come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence.
-
-“Think, Alessandro,” she said; “this bell, no doubt, has rung many times
-for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to
-the village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. It will be
-like a saint's statue in the house.”
-
-With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues,
-Alessandro's desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing;
-but he revolved it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his
-shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old
-Mission buildings a dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion.
-The San Fernando church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church
-properties as were left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not
-over-careful, and not in the least devout. It would not trouble him to
-part with a saint or two, Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to
-the saint either; on the contrary, the greatest of reverence, since
-the statue was to be taken from a place where no one cared for it, and
-brought into one where it would be tenderly cherished, and worshipped
-every day. If only San Fernando were not so far away, and the wooden
-saints so heavy! However, it should come about yet. Majella should
-have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should keep Alessandro from
-procuring for his Majel the few things that lay within his power. But he
-held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she did not know
-it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and secretly as if he had
-come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes would dilate, if
-she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her bedside; and how sure
-she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,--his dear, devout
-Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more credulous
-than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he, untaught,
-had learned, in his solitude with nature.
-
-Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a
-piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled
-him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor.
-
-“You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred
-sheep?” said Ysidro.
-
-“Holy Virgin!” cried Alessandro, “you do not mean that! How is that?
-They told me all our stock was taken by the Americans.”
-
-“Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula,” replied Ysidro; “but in the
-spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for him up
-into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula pasture would
-fall short, and the people there, who could not leave, must have their
-cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,--I think, near fifty head;
-and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of
-sheep,--a hundred, Ramon said; he herded them with ours all summer, and
-he left a man up there with them. They will be down next week. It is
-time they were sheared.”
-
-Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like
-a deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the
-little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He
-was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out
-a blessing. “What are a handful of sheep to her!” he thought.
-
-Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. “Majella!
-my Majella! There are cattle--and sheep,” he cried. “The saints be
-praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said.”
-
-“I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro,” replied
-Ramona, gently.
-
-“You do not wonder! You do not ask!” he cried, astonished at her calm.
-“Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the
-skies?”
-
-“Nay, not as our eyes would see,” she answered; “but the holy ones who
-live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. Whence came
-these cattle, and how are they ours?”
-
-When he told her, her face grew solemn. “Do you remember that night in
-the willows,” she said, “when I was like one dying, because you would
-not bring me with you? You had no faith that there would be food. And
-I told you then that the saints never forsook those who loved them, and
-that God would give food. And even at that moment, when you did not know
-it, there were your cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains,
-in the keeping of God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?” and she
-threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
-
-“It is true,” said Alessandro. “I will believe, after this, that the
-saints love my Majella.”
-
-But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself:
-“Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said about the
-saints, if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of
-food? It is only for her that the saints pray. They are displeased with
-my people.”
-
-
-
-
-XX
-
-ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and
-vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having
-been beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood
-on the south side of the valley,--too far, Ramona felt, from the blessed
-bell; but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields any nearer,
-and she could see the chapel, and the posts, and, on a clear day, the
-bell itself. The house was small. “Small to hold so much joy,” she said,
-when Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, “It is
-small, Majella,--too small;” and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke,
-the size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. “Too small,” he
-repeated.
-
-“Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro,” she laughed; “but quite
-large enough to hold two persons.”
-
-It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had
-arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as
-she looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs
-and the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the
-statuette of the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the
-wall, between the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep
-enough to hold small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept
-constantly growing there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and
-re-wreathed the niche till it looked like a bower. Below it hung her
-gold rosary and the ivory Christ; and many a woman of the village, when
-she came to see Ramona, asked permission to go into the bedroom and say
-her prayers there; so that it finally came to be a sort of shrine for
-the whole village.
-
-A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the
-little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She
-could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch.
-But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them,
-and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they
-would not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They
-lived in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees
-for them. “In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will
-come,” Alessandro said.
-
-With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part
-of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming
-implements,--a good wagon and harnesses, and a plough. Baba and Benito,
-at first restive and indignant, soon made up their minds to work. Ramona
-had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked to a brother. In
-fact, except for Ramona's help, it would have been a question whether
-even Alessandro could have made Baba work in harness. “Good Baba!”
- Ramona said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his
-neck,--“Good Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and
-you are so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?” and with one hand in his
-mane, and her cheek, every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up
-and down the first furrows he ploughed.
-
-“My Senorita!” thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in
-pride, as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he watched
-her laughing face and blowing hair,--“my Senorita!”
-
-But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There
-was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro
-had made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great
-outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and
-lifted from the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,--in
-this cradle, on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white homespun
-blankets, lay Ramona's baby, six months old, lusty, strong, and
-beautiful, as only children born of great love and under healthful
-conditions can be. This child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight; to
-Ramona's regret,--so far as a loving mother can feel regret connected
-with her firstborn. Ramona had wished for an Alessandro; but the
-disappointed wish faded out of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed
-into her baby-girl's blue eyes,--eyes so blue that their color was the
-first thing noticed by each person who looked at her.
-
-“Eyes of the sky,” exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her.
-
-“Like the mother's,” said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an
-astonished look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes,
-too, were blue.
-
-“Wonderful!” he said. “It is so. I never saw it;” and he wondered in his
-heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born
-of an Indian mother.
-
-“Eyes of the sky,” became at once the baby's name in the village; and
-Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of
-so calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The
-news was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would
-hold services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the
-new-born babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night,
-Alessandro and Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what
-should be her name. Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name
-her Majella.
-
-“No! Never but one Majella,” he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a
-sense of vague fear, it was so solemn.
-
-They discussed “Ramona,” “Isabella.” Alessandro suggested Carmena. This
-had been his mother's name.
-
-At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in
-the Temecula graveyard. “Oh, no, no! Not that!” she cried. “It is
-ill-fated;” and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only
-association with the name.
-
-At last Alessandro said: “The people have named her, I think, Majella.
-Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never be called
-anything but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village.”
-
-“Let that name be her true one, then,” said Ramona. And so it was
-settled; and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms,
-and made the sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with some
-difficulty the syllables of the Indian name, which meant “Blue Eyes,” or
-“Eyes of the Sky.”
-
-Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he
-had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the
-Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to
-meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the
-valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do
-him the honor to stay with him.
-
-“And indeed, Father,” added Ysidro, “you will be far better lodged and
-fed than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all
-should be done.”
-
-“Alessandro! Alessandro!” said the Father, musingly. “Has he been long
-married?”
-
-“No, Father,” answered Ysidro. “But little more than two years. They
-were married by you, on their way from Temecula here.”
-
-“Ay, ay. I remember,” said Father Gaspara. “I will come;” and it was
-with no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the
-couple that had so strongly impressed him.
-
-Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining
-the priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with
-her cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra
-was much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father
-Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when
-he said, “But where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella,
-if we give our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but
-you?”--“I will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana,” she replied. “For
-two nights, it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father
-sleep in the house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!”
-
-Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of
-gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's
-bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad
-lace on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright
-red calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of
-green leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,--all
-made up a picture such as Father Gaspara had never before seen in
-his pilgrimages among the Indian villages. He could not restrain an
-ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he
-exclaimed, “Where got you that?”
-
-“It is my wife's,” replied Alessandro, proudly. “It was given to her by
-Father Salvierderra.”
-
-“Ah!” said the Father. “He died the other day.”
-
-“Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!” cried Alessandro. “That will be a
-terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her
-presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will make
-her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy.”
-
-Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. “To be
-sure, to be sure,” he said absently; “I will say nothing of it; but this
-is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And
-this,--is this not an altar-cloth?” he added, lifting up the beautiful
-wrought altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on
-the wall below the Madonna's shrine.
-
-“Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a
-present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it to
-him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she hears
-that he is dead.”
-
-Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared
-in the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to
-Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's
-supper.
-
-“I pray you tell her not,” said Alessandro, under his breath; but it
-was too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona
-exclaimed:--
-
-“That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to Father
-Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave
-it to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I was hoping to hear news of him
-through you.”
-
-“Yes, I knew him,--not very well; it is long since I saw him,” stammered
-Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have told Ramona
-the truth; she would have set that down to the secular priest's
-indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but looking at
-Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No shadow there
-ever escaped her eye. “What is it, Alessandro?” she exclaimed. “Is it
-something about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?”
-
-Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from
-one to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona,
-laying both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had
-learned from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: “You will
-not tell me! You do not speak! Then he is dead!” and she sank on her
-knees.
-
-“Yes, my daughter, he is dead,” said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than
-that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. “He died a month ago, at
-Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to give you
-such sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was very feeble, and he
-longed to die, I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not wish to
-live.”
-
-Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only
-a confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, “a
-month ago.” She remained silent and motionless for some moments; then
-rising, without speaking a word, or looking at either of the men, she
-crossed the room and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common impulse,
-both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood
-together outside the door, the Father said, “I would go back to Lomax's
-if it were not so late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such
-grief.”
-
-“That would but be another grief, Father,” said Alessandro. “She has
-been full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very strong of
-soul. It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who give strength
-to her.”
-
-“My faith, but the man is right,” thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour
-later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did
-not know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour.
-It wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to
-speak to her.
-
-When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the
-valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's
-name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. “I cannot talk about him yet,
-dear,” she said. “I never believed that he would die without giving us
-his blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over.”
-
-Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her
-the next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away,
-and spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered
-her too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help
-them. She had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since
-she came, and no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she
-smiled not. Yet there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready
-to be christened; and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing
-for half an hour, and from every corner of the valley the people were
-gathering, and Father Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was
-praying before the altar; it was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did
-Alessandro and Ramona kneel apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken
-countenances, not even looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached
-up her hands? Gradually it was whispered about what had happened. Some
-one had got it from Antonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then
-all the women's faces grew sad too. They all had heard of Father
-Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to the ivory Christ in
-Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her.
-
-As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and
-taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word.
-The gesture was more than any speech could have been.
-
-When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips,
-“Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last
-hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me.”
-
-“I heard very little,” replied the Father, “except that he had been
-feeble for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of the
-night kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying.”
-
-“Yes,” interrupted Ramona; “that he always did.”
-
-“And the last morning,” continued the Father, “the Brothers found him
-there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to move;
-and they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there they found,
-to their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on the stones; and
-then they took him to the Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed,
-and he did not speak any more, and at noon he died.”
-
-“Thank you very much, Father,” said Ramona, without lifting her eyes
-from the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, “I am glad that I
-know that he is dead.”
-
-“Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!” mused
-Father Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. “There's none of them would
-look like that if I were dead, I warrant me! There,” he exclaimed, “I
-meant to have asked Alessandro who this wife of his is! I don't believe
-she is a Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out. She's had
-some schooling somewhere, that's plain. She's quite superior to the
-general run of them. Next time I come, I will find out about her.”
-
-“Next time!” In what calendar are kept the records of those next times
-which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again,
-Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their
-home.
-
-It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life,
-that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of
-the knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when
-Alessandro came in one noon with an expression on his face that
-terrified her; seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his
-hands, and would neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near
-crying from his silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with
-a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice, “It has begun!” and buried
-his face again. Finally Ramona's tears wrung from him the following
-story:
-
-Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of
-the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the
-Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of
-hut for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not
-need the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He
-had taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone
-to San Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in
-the interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent
-agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having
-expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished
-to renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was
-his, and he was coming out there to build a house, and live.
-
-Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had
-an angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The
-Doctor said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United
-States Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents
-in Los Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington,
-to show that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer
-in San Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,--the old one
-from the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San
-Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have;
-but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that
-such a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very
-well when the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that
-the Americans owned it now; and everything was done by the American law
-now, not by the Mexican law any more.
-
-“Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all,” said Ysidro. “Is
-that what it means?”
-
-And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the
-cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,--he could
-not tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at
-Washington.
-
-Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown
-on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a
-soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States
-Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after
-souls,--that was his business,--and let the Indian beggars alone! “Yes,
-that was what he said,--'the Indian beggars!' and so they would be all
-beggars, presently.”
-
-Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice
-was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with
-rage and despair.
-
-“You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do
-nothing! We might better be dead!”
-
-“It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had,” said Ramona,
-piteously. “It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came.”
-
-“Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman,” said Alessandro,
-fiercely. “Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the beginning.
-To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show that the land is
-theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild beasts. They are
-better than we.”
-
-From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom.
-In all the village councils,--and they were many and long now, for the
-little community had been plunged into great anxiety and distress
-by this Doctor Morong's affair,--Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To
-whatever was proposed, he had but one reply: “It is of no use. We can do
-nothing.”
-
-“Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve,” he said one night,
-bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him that
-they should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the
-headquarters of the Government officers were, and where they could learn
-all about the new laws in regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him.
-“What more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the
-American laws?” he said. “Is it not enough that you know they have made
-a law which will take the land from Indians; from us who have owned
-it longer than any can remember; land that our ancestors are buried
-in,--will take that land and give it to themselves, and say it is
-theirs? Is it to hear this again said in your face, and to see the man
-laugh who says it, like the lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey
-to Los Angeles? I will not go!”
-
-And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los
-Angeles priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently
-interpreted for him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted
-all that the officials had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as
-Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They were not inhuman, and
-they felt sincere sympathy for this man, representative of two hundred
-hard-working, industrious people, in danger of being turned out of house
-and home. But they were very busy; they had to say curtly, and in few
-words, all there was to be said: the San Pasquale district was certainly
-the property of the United States Government, and the lands were in
-market, to be filed on, and bought, according to the homestead laws,
-These officials had neither authority nor option in the matter. They
-were there simply to carry out instructions, and obey orders.
-
-Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were
-beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the
-journey; he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles
-priest had promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington,
-to lay the case before the head man there, and perhaps something would
-be done for their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding
-along day after day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the
-subject,--it seemed incredible to him that the Government would permit
-such a village as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at
-sunset; and looking down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the
-morning of their arrival, from the hillcrests at the west end of the
-valley, seeing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the
-peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. “If the people who make
-these laws could only see this village, they would never turn us out,
-never! They can't know what is being done. I am sure they can't know.”
-
-“What did I tell you?” cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and
-reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. “What did I tell you?
-I saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come as you went, or
-worse! I have been watching for you these two days. Another American
-has come in with Morong in the canon; they are making corrals; they will
-keep stock. You will see how long we have any pasture-lands in that end
-of the valley. I drive all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell
-it for what it will bring,--both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use.
-You will see.”
-
-When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office
-authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: “I wish to hear no more of
-it. Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and my nose.
-I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the men who are
-waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an American may speak
-truth!”
-
-Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all
-his cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. “It
-is better than nothing,” he said. “They will not now be sold by the
-sheriff, like my father's in Temecula.” The money he got, he took to
-Father Gaspara. “Father,” he said huskily. “I have sold all my stock. I
-would not wait for the Americans to sell it for me, and take the money.
-I have not got much, but it is better than nothing. It will make that we
-do not starve for one year. Will you keep it for me, Father? I dare not
-have it in San Pasquale. San Pasquale will be like Temecula,--it may be
-to-morrow.”
-
-To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San
-Diego, Alessandro cried: “Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder! I
-trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. Keep it for me,
-Father, I pray you,” and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone.
-
-“What are your plans now?” he asked.
-
-“Plans!” repeated Alessandro,--“plans, Father! Why should I make plans?
-I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let me. You saw
-our little house, Father!” His voice broke as he said this. “I have
-large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off them, it will be
-something; but my land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon as
-the Americans see it, they will want it. Farewell, Father. I thank you
-for keeping my money, and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro
-told me. Farewell.” And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift
-galloping Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself.
-
-“And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the
-record,” said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye
-back over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father Gaspara's
-parish, that the list took long to read. The entry of Alessandro's
-marriage was blotted. The Father had been in haste that night.
-“Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--” No more could be read. The name meant
-nothing to Father Gaspara. “Clearly an Indian name,” he said to himself;
-“yet she seemed superior in every way. I wonder where she got it.”
-
-The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains
-set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get
-in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early
-to ploughing new fields,--all but Alessandro.
-
-“If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints,” he said. “I will plough
-no more land for the robbers.” But after his fields were all planted,
-and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the
-valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was known,
-he said to Ramona one morning, “I think I will make one more field of
-wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe we will be left
-unmolested till the harvest is over.”
-
-“Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!” said Ramona,
-cheerily. “You are always looking on the black side.”
-
-“There is no other but the black side, Majella,” he replied. “Strain my
-eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any more
-harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we are
-lucky. I have seen the white men riding up and down in the valley, and
-I found some of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set up
-on my land the other day; and I pulled them up and burned them to ashes.
-But I will plough one more field this week; though, I know not why it
-is, my thoughts go against it even now. But I will do it; and I will not
-come home till night, Majella, for the field is too far to go and come
-twice. I shall be the whole day ploughing.” So saying, he stooped and
-kissed the baby, and then kissing Ramona, went out.
-
-Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba
-to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of
-thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone
-a few rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes
-meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went
-on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east.
-Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too
-disquieted. She could not keep back the tears.
-
-“How changed is Alessandro!” she thought. “It terrifies me to see him
-thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;” and kneeling before the
-shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and
-drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her
-embroidery. Her skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable
-source of income, her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego
-merchants, and at fairly good prices.
-
-It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when,
-glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment
-she saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought,
-“There is no dinner! He said he would not come!” and springing up, was
-about to run to meet him, when she observed that he was not alone.
-A short, thick-set man was walking by his side; they were talking
-earnestly. It was a white man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped.
-She saw Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the
-tule sheds in the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white
-man also; they were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear.
-Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear; she could hear nothing,
-but the gestures told much. Had it come,--the thing Alessandro had said
-would come? Were they to be driven out,--driven out this very day, when
-the Virgin had only just now seemed to promise her help and protection?
-
-The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her
-breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in
-her arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her,
-made an imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went
-back to the veranda and sat down to wait.
-
-In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into
-Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still
-standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand,
-Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he
-seemed to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses'
-reins, came slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again
-he made the same authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she
-seated herself, trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now
-sometimes afraid of Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him,
-she dreaded, she knew not what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had
-loved.
-
-Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in
-the corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the
-house; walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid
-spot on each cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin.
-His eyes glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw
-from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and
-burst into a laugh more terrible than any weeping,--a laugh which wrung
-from her instantly, involuntarily, the cry, “Oh, my Alessandro! my
-Alessandro! What is it? Are you mad?”
-
-“No, my sweet Majel,” he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging his
-arms round her and the child together, drawing them so close to his
-breast that the embrace hurt,--“no, I am not mad; but I think I shall
-soon be! What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, and of the
-fields,--of all that was ours in San Pasquale! To-morrow we will go out
-into the world again. I will see if I can find a place the Americans do
-not want!”
-
-It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been
-ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked
-up and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped
-midway in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro.
-Presently he came toward him, and said roughly, “Look here! Be off, will
-you? This is my land. I'm going to build a house here.”
-
-Alessandro had replied, “This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours
-to-day?”
-
-Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's
-tone and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood
-to him in the place of conscience and heart, and he said: “Come, now, my
-good fellow, you look like a reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear
-out, will you, and not make me any trouble. You see the land's mine.
-I've got all this land round here;” and he waved his arm, describing a
-circle; “three hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and
-we're coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last
-week. It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make a
-fuss about it. Don't you see?”
-
-Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months.
-Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over
-scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed
-to be given him now.
-
-“Yes, I see, Senor,” he said. “I am not surprised. I knew it would come;
-but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give you any
-trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I have
-heard all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands to the
-Americans. We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, Senor.” He
-paused.
-
-The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at
-being met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his
-tongue. “Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on fellows like
-you, that are industrious, and have done some work on the land. But you
-see the land's in the market; I've paid my money for it.”
-
-“The Senor is going to build a house?” asked Alessandro.
-
-“Yes,” the man answered. “I've got my family in San Diego, and I want to
-get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till
-she's in her own house. We're from the States, and she's been used to
-having everything comfortable.”
-
-“I have a wife and child, Senor,” said Alessandro, still in the same
-calm, deliberate tone; “and we have a very good house of two rooms. It
-would save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine.”
-
-“How far is it?” said the man. “I can't tell exactly where the
-boundaries of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up.”
-
-“Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land,”
- replied Alessandro. “My house is farther west than your stakes; and I
-have large wheat-fields there, too,--many acres, Senor, all planted.”
-
-Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the
-handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and
-wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for
-that purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat
-whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all
-in good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair
-means or foul.
-
-“There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, Senor, you
-can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you cannot build for
-less than one hundred dollars. What will you give me for them?”
-
-“I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose,”
- said the man, insolently.
-
-“No, Senor,” replied Alessandro.
-
-“What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!” in a brutal sneer. “You
-haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law.”
-
-“I shall hinder, Senor,” replied Alessandro. “I shall burn down the
-sheds and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the wheat
-is reaped, I will burn that.” Still in the same calm tone.
-
-“What'll you take?” said the man, sullenly.
-
-“Two hundred dollars,” replied Alessandro.
-
-“Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you,” said the
-man; “and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know
-it, for buying out an Indian!”
-
-“The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San Diego.
-You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to
-take away my things in. The plough you may have. That is worth twenty.”
-
-“I'll do it,” said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he
-counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold.
-
-“Is that all right?” he said, as he put down the last piece.
-
-“That is the sum I said, Senor,” replied Alessandro. “Tomorrow, at noon,
-you can come into the house.”
-
-“Where will you go?” asked the man, again slightly touched by
-Alessandro's manner. “Why don't you stay round here? I expect you could
-get work enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; they'll want
-hands.”
-
-A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked
-them back. “I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here,”
- he said; and that ended the interview.
-
-“I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way,” thought the
-man from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. “I
-expect I should feel just so myself.”
-
-Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move
-about the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his
-restlessness was terrible to see. “By sunrise, I would like to be off,”
- he said. “It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours.”
- Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible
-laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than
-to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a
-year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her
-home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed
-voice, of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed
-him mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more
-feverish in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled;
-everything, except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon.
-
-“Now, we must cook food for the journey,” said Alessandro.
-
-“Where are we going?” said the weeping Ramona.
-
-“Where?” ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like
-impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. “Where? I know
-not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At
-sunrise we will start.”
-
-Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the
-village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. “There
-will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you do not speak to one. Why
-should we have more tears? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro.
-He will tell them.”
-
-This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it,
-as she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she
-could not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now?
-
-Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn,
-before a creature was stirring in the village,--the wagon piled high;
-Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was
-heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at
-Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side.
-He knew all was wrong.
-
-As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a
-northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, “Where does this road
-lead, Alessandro?”
-
-“To San Jacinto,” he said. “San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back,
-Majella! Do not look back!” he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming
-eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. “Do not look back! It is gone!
-Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!”
-
-
-
-
-XXI
-
-THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno
-house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had
-died away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old
-routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before.
-Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very
-Mexican whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done
-well; there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,--a thing for
-which the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan
-to hold him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had
-not been broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop
-would have been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this
-Mexican; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on
-the place had or fancied some reason for being set against him; some
-from sympathy with Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience;
-Margarita, most of all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita,
-between remorse about her young mistress and pique and disappointment
-about Alessandro, had become a very unhappy girl; and her mother,
-instead of comforting or soothing her, added to her misery by
-continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that Ramona had left in
-the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing came to fill it;
-there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned by some one;
-mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion, and regret.
-Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as she said,
-or had she fled with Alessandro?
-
-Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt
-sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and
-the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, “and never a rail
-out of its place.” And the saddle, too! Ay, the smart lad! He had done
-the best he could for the Senorita; but, Holy Virgin! what had got into
-the Senorita to run off like that, with an Indian,--even Alessandro!
-The fiends had bewitched her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every
-traveller, every wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of
-Alessandro, beyond the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been
-driven out of their village, and that there was now not an Indian in the
-valley. There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father had both
-died; but no one knew anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had
-disappeared, that was all there was of it,--disappeared, like any wild
-creatures, foxes or coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid
-of them. But the Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could
-not be! Heaven forbid!
-
-“If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself.” said Juan Can. “It would
-be some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who
-drove her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, Luigo.” In some
-of his most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: “There's none
-of you know the truth about the Senorita but me! It's a hard hand the
-Senora's reared her with, from the first. She's a wonderful woman, our
-Senora! She gets power over one.”
-
-But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the
-changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and
-her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had
-been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora
-believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far
-from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to
-repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no
-longer to her desirable.
-
-Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet
-dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had
-heard the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was
-from Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother
-opened her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses
-as he read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the
-night, his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales
-seemed to drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of
-it. A shame! a cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had
-brought it on Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt
-as if he had been under a spell all along, not to have realized this.
-“That's what I told my mother!” he groaned,--“that it drove her to
-running away! Oh, my sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go
-after them, and bring them back;” and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing
-himself, ran down the veranda steps, to gain a little more time to
-think. He returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in the doorway,
-with pale, affrighted face.
-
-“Felipe!” she cried, “Ramona is not here.”
-
-“I know it,” he replied in an angry tone. “That is what I told you we
-should do,--drive her to running away with Alessandro!”
-
-“With Alessandro!” interrupted the Senora.
-
-“Yes,” continued Felipe,--“with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps you
-think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to have her
-run away with him, than to be married to him here under our roof! I
-do not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to breaking the
-girl's heart! I am going after them, to fetch them back!”
-
-If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less
-quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from
-the skies she would not surrender till she must.
-
-“How know you that it is with Alessandro?” she said.
-
-“Because she has written it here!” cried Felipe, defiantly holding
-up his little note. “She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She
-writes like a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,--I, who
-drove her to steal out of my house like a thief!”
-
-The phrase, “my house,” smote the Senora's ear like a note from some
-other sphere, which indeed it was,--from the new world into which Felipe
-had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to
-reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round
-the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his
-crutches. “Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!” they cried. “Thieves
-have been here in the night! Baba is gone,--Baba, and the Senorita's
-saddle.”
-
-A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to
-Felipe, she said in a tone--what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if
-he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never
-forget,--“As you were saying, like a thief in the night!”
-
-With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen
-Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his
-mother, “For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!--What is
-that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come
-down, after breakfast, and look at it;” and turning his back on them, he
-drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house.
-
-She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.
-
-“Ay, mother,” he said, “you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no
-man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins,
-be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back.”
-
-“The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!” retorted the
-Senora, at white heat. “You may rear as many Indian families as you
-please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!” In spite
-of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had
-burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No
-counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within
-her, when those words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the
-sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged
-hands as they lay trembling in her lap. “Mother mia,” he cried, “you
-will break my heart if you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command
-me to do what a man may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can
-I see my sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?”
-
-“I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home,” said the
-Senora, regaining herself a little. “Had they no plans? Spoke she not in
-her letter of what they would do?”
-
-“Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first,” he replied.
-
-“Ah!” The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was
-that this would be the best possible thing which could happen. “Father
-Salvierderra will counsel them what to do,” she said. “He could no doubt
-establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect,
-you will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any
-way you like, but do not bring them here.” She paused. “Not until I am
-dead, Felipe! It will not be long.”
-
-Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his
-hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. “My Felipe!” she said.
-“It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!”
-
-“Mother! mother!” he cried in anguish. “I am yours,--wholly, devotedly
-yours! Why do you torture me thus?”
-
-“I will not torture you more,” she said wearily, in a feeble tone. “I
-ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that
-wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name
-never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in
-the night! Ay, a horse-thief!”
-
-Felipe sprang to his feet.
-
-“Mother.” he said, “Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as
-soon as he was born!”
-
-The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror
-and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many
-days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over
-her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion.
-She spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from
-despair. The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would
-take long. Yet she was dying, and she knew it.
-
-Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step
-only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much
-changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a
-time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should
-find them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he
-should find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the
-possibility of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help
-them, if need be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as
-he lived.
-
-When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, “You are so
-strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away
-long,--not over a week,” she understood, and with a deep sigh replied:
-“I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey
-must be taken, it is as well done now.”
-
-How was the Senora changed!
-
-“It must be, mother,” said Felipe, “or I would not leave you. I will set
-off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight.”
-
-But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and
-there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. “You must go, my son?”
- she asked at last.
-
-“I must, mother!” and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her
-again and again. “Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?”
-
-“No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell.” And she
-turned, that she might not see him go.
-
-Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter.
-Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along
-the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to
-the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen
-any such persons.
-
-When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara
-Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra
-sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed
-with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in
-each hand. “Welcome, my son!” he said. “Are all well? You find me very
-feeble just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn.”
-
-Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have
-spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe
-exclaimed: “Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?”
-
-Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. “Ramona!” he
-cried. “Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?”
-
-It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing
-himself no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he
-known how well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character,
-and her almost unlimited power over all persons around her. Father
-Salvierderra was not shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for
-Alessandro. He regretted it, but he did not think it shame, as the
-Senora had done. As Felipe talked with him, he perceived even more
-clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had been to Alessandro.
-
-“He is a noble young man,” said Father Salvierderra. “His father was one
-of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them,
-Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps they may yet
-come. When you find them, bear them my blessing, and say that I wish
-they would come hither. I would like to give them my blessing before
-I die. Felipe, I shall never leave Santa Barbara again. My time draws
-near.”
-
-Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly
-listened to the Father's words. “I will not tarry,” he said. “I cannot
-rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night.”
-
-“You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them,” said the
-Father. “God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them,
-Felipe;” and he tottered into the church.
-
-Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment
-and pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and
-Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention
-of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to
-look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days
-before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley.
-But he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as
-the clew seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse
-on his return journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the
-beast; and before he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature
-was near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save
-her strength. As he was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he
-suddenly saw an Indian's head peering over the ledge. He made signs
-to him to come down. The Indian turned his head, and spoke to some one
-behind; one after another a score of figures rose. They made signs to
-Felipe to come up. “Poor things!” he thought; “they are afraid.” He
-shouted to them that his horse was too tired to climb that wall; but if
-they would come down, he would give them money, holding up a gold-piece.
-They consulted among themselves; presently they began slowly descending,
-still halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him. He held
-up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as they could see his face
-distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no enemy's face.
-
-Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply
-to Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught
-the word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian
-tongue.
-
-“This woman has seen Alessandro,” said the man.
-
-“Where?” said Felipe, breathlessly.
-
-“In Temecula, two weeks ago,” he said.
-
-“Ask her if he had any one with him,” said Felipe.
-
-“No,” said the woman. “He was alone.”
-
-A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. “Alone!” What did this mean! He
-reflected. The woman watched him. “Is she sure he was alone; there was
-no one with him?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Was he riding a big black horse?”
-
-“No, a white horse,” answered the woman, promptly. “A small white
-horse.”
-
-It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle
-this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. “Ask her
-if she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him.”
-
-“All night,” he answered. “He spent the night where she did.”
-
-Felipe despaired. “Does she know where he is now?” he asked.
-
-“He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey.”
-
-“What to do?”
-
-“She does not know.”
-
-“Did he say when he would come back?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“When?”
-
-“Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again.”
-
-“Does she know him well?”
-
-“As well as her own brother.”
-
-What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of
-his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. “I am
-sorry,” he said. “Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;” and he
-rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph.
-
-When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made
-as if she would run after him, but checked herself. “No,” she thought.
-“It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will not tell.
-Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell.”
-
-And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a
-moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,--the breath of a
-loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her.
-
-Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very
-ill when she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely,
-sorrowing Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away
-to the North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from
-speaking Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again.
-As soon as he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never
-cease searching till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when
-Felipe entered his mother's presence, his first look in her face told
-him that he would not leave her side again until he had laid her at rest
-in the tomb.
-
-“Thank God! you have come, Felipe,” she said in a feeble voice. “I had
-begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am
-going to leave you, my son;” and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
-
-Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,--this
-poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the consolations
-of her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed incessantly, but got
-no peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the Virgin's face and on the
-saints; but all seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. “If Father
-Salvierderra would only come!” she groaned. “He could give me peace. If
-only I can live till he comes again!”
-
-When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would
-never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept.
-Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished
-to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To
-whom should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest
-within reach that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her
-instructions, “the Church,” she meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew,
-the Franciscans. The Senora dared not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day
-by day these fretting anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength,
-and her fever grew higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the
-result of Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At
-last he could bear it no longer, and one day said, “Mother, I found no
-trace of Ramona. I have not the least idea where she is. The Father had
-not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead.”
-
-“Better so,” was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still
-deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she
-resolved, “To-morrow I will tell Felipe;” and when to-morrow came,
-she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found
-herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and
-then all would be well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter,
-imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was
-empowered to hire a litter and four men to bring the Father gently and
-carefully all the way. But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara,
-Father Salvierderra was too feeble to be moved; too feeble even
-to write. He could write only by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore,
-guardedly, sending her his blessing, and saying that he hoped her
-foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping of her friends. The
-Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month after month had passed
-without tidings of his “blessed child.”
-
-Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the
-Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year
-had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother,
-and haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured
-indeed.
-
-But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura
-doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing
-remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more
-all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so
-loved and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness
-and devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days,
-the sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts.
-
-“My adorable Felipe!” she would murmur. “What a son hast thou been!”
- And, “My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?” Felipe would reply,
-bowing his head on her hands,--so wasted now, so white, so weak; those
-hands which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year
-ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle
-Ramona, had she seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times
-a look almost of terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it?
-What would Felipe say? At last the moment came. She had been with
-difficulty roused from a long fainting; one more such would be the
-last, she knew,--knew even better than those around her. As she regained
-consciousness, she gasped, “Felipe! Alone!”
-
-He understood, and waved the rest away.
-
-“Alone!” she said again, turning her eyes to the door.
-
-“Leave the room,” said Felipe; “all--wait outside;” and he closed the
-door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to
-go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery,
-rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw
-with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make
-him, even after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts.
-
-But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue
-of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving
-upon her, she said, “Felipe--behind that statue--look!”
-
-Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, “Nothing is there,
-dearest mother. Be calm. I am here.”
-
-New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry
-the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? “No! no!
-Felipe--there is a door there--secret door. Look! Open! I must tell
-you!”
-
-Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had
-said.
-
-“Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger,” he said.
-As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright
-in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door,
-her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass
-his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead.
-
-At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing
-aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion,
-Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place.
-Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son,
-to find behind that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died
-with that look of anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad
-duties of the next four days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent
-of this premonition. The funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little
-chapel could not hold the quarter part of those who came, from far and
-near. Everybody wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from
-Ventura and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done, they
-bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by
-the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at last,
-the restless, passionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night after the
-funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his mother's room,
-they shuddered, and whispered, “Oh, he must not! He will break his
-heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!”
-
-Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: “Dear Senor
-Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!”
-
-But he put her gently by, saying, “I would rather be here, good Marda;”
- and went in and locked the door.
-
-It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried
-his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe
-the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the
-jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was
-in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he
-sat motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul
-was wrung.
-
-“And she thought that shame, and not this!” he said bitterly.
-
-But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find
-her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it
-must go to the Santa Barbara College.
-
-“Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church,” he said.
-“But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh,
-shame! oh, disgrace!” From the grave in which Felipe had buried his
-mother now, was no resurrection.
-
-Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and
-wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling
-him of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies
-would belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to
-Juan Canito, saying: “I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything
-happens to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger
-to Santa Barbara.”
-
-“Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?” asked the old man, piteously.
-
-“I cannot tell, Juan,” replied Felipe. “It may be only a short time; it
-may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according
-to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in
-charge.”
-
-“Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!” exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been
-for two years. “Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy
-till now, I have had no thought except for your house.”
-
-Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she
-known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of
-the gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping
-behind her body borne to burial.
-
-“And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!” he said. “My
-God!”
-
-
-
-
-XXII
-
-DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they
-scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on
-his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious
-fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response.
-After they were camped for the night, she said, “Dear Alessandro, will
-you not tell me where we are going?”
-
-In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her
-tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: “My
-Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what
-to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round
-as leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I
-can be going mad? It was enough to make me!”
-
-Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could.
-“Dear Alessandro,” she said, “let us go to Los Angeles, and not live
-with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at
-dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing
-to do, too. It would be better, I think.”
-
-He looked horror-stricken at the thought. “Go live among the white
-people!” he cried. “What does Majella think would become of one Indian,
-or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive
-us out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh,
-Majella is foolish!”
-
-“But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino
-and other places,” she persisted. “Why could not we do as they do?”
-
-“Yes,” he said bitterly, “at work for whites; so they are, Majella has
-not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when
-the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father
-has told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a
-white man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella.
-And now they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes
-in bad flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if
-he will not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to
-go, then. One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not
-take a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the
-cheek with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any
-more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill
-some man, Majella, if I saw things like that.”
-
-Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: “If Majella
-would not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, where
-no white man has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was
-following a bear. The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then,
-it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little green
-valley. We could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, it
-is very small, the valley. Majella would be afraid?”
-
-“Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh,
-do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is there
-no other Indian village you know?”
-
-“There is Saboba,” he said, “at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I had
-thought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it is
-a poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it.
-Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. There
-was a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,--Senor Ravallo; he
-found the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is one
-of the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said they
-should never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons have
-the estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise to
-the Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back
-to Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as
-they did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley.
-We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, we
-will stay.”
-
-It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San
-Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky
-over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern
-part of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and
-golden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto
-Mountain shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of
-rubies. The glow seemed preternatural.
-
-“Behold San Jacinto!” cried Alessandro.
-
-Ramona exclaimed in delight. “It is an omen!” she said. “We are going
-into the sunlight, out of the shadow;” and she glanced back at the west,
-which was of a slaty blackness.
-
-“I like it not!” said Alessandro. “The shadow follows too fast!”
-
-Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and
-tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses
-across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall.
-
-“Holy Virgin!” cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He
-urged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much
-even for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded
-wagon.
-
-“There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we
-could but reach it!” groaned Alessandro. “Majella, you and the child
-will freeze.”
-
-“She is warm on my breast,” said Ramona; “but, Alessandro, what ice in
-this wind! It is like a knife at my back!”
-
-Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast
-thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened.
-
-“Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did,” said Ramona, her teeth
-chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer.
-
-“I would rather it blew than not,” said Alessandro; “it will carry the
-snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than
-in the night.”
-
-Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as
-Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,--this strange
-opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently
-the rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The
-horses stopped; refused to go on.
-
-“We are lost, if we stay here!” cried Alessandro. “Come, my Benito,
-come!” and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back
-into the road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank
-within her. She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she
-hold the baby safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the
-wind had risen again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like
-making headway among whirling snow-drifts.
-
-“We will die,” thought Ramona. “Perhaps it is as well!” And that was the
-last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken
-and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, “Sorry ter handle yer so
-rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!”
-
-“Fire!” Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put
-the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried
-to rise from her seat; but she could not move.
-
-“Set still! set still!” said the strange voice. “I'll jest carry the
-baby ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up
-on yer feet;” and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously
-disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry.
-
-“Thank God!” said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. “The child
-is alive! Majella!” he called.
-
-“Yes, Alessandro,” she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice
-like a distant echo past him.
-
-It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral
-than Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten
-travellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it.
-Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had thought to himself,
-in almost the same despairing words as Ramona, “This will end all our
-troubles,” he saw a faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned the
-horses' heads towards it. The ground was rough and broken, and more than
-once he had been in danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed
-on, shouting at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and
-another light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards
-him,--a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, “Wall,
-stranger, I allow yer inter trouble,” were as intelligible to Alessandro
-as if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect.
-
-Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish.
-
-“Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!” thought Jeff Hyer to
-himself. “Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn't
-know better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!” And as he put
-the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, “Ef I'd
-knowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They're
-more ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks.”
-
-“Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human
-creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this,” replied the
-woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its
-first touch, and ceased crying.
-
-“Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!” she exclaimed, as she looked
-into the baby's face. “I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein'
-aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit.”
-
-“Better see't th' mother fust, Ri,” said Jeff, leading, half carrying,
-Ramona into the hut. “She's nigh abaout froze stiff!”
-
-But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for
-Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered.
-It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the
-corner of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose
-bright eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his
-disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened
-and wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair
-wound in a careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying
-over her forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite
-of her careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity
-in her bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and
-warmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and
-as she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, “This ain't no
-common Mexican, no how.” “Be ye movers?” she said.
-
-Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not
-included. “Ah, Senora,” she said regretfully, “I cannot talk in the
-English speech; only in Spanish.”
-
-“Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can't
-talk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter.
-Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,--fur warm climate! 'pears
-like it, don't it?” and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of
-ineffable tenderness at the sick man. “Ask her who they be, Jos,” she
-added.
-
-Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona,
-said in Spanish, “My mother asks if you are travellers?”
-
-“Yes,” said Ramona. “We have come all the way from San Diego. We are
-Indians.”
-
-“Injuns!” ejaculated Jos's mother. “Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly
-took in Injuns? What on airth--Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny
-white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to stay
-naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thet
-baby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes.”
-
-Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing.
-Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had
-never before heard so many English sentences without being able to
-understand one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest
-words, that she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently,
-“I know very little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it
-tire you to interpret to me what your mother said?”
-
-Jos was as full of humor as his mother. “She wants me to tell her what
-you wuz sayin',” he said, “I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't
-she'll like best.--My mother says you can stay here with us till the
-storm is over,” he said to Ramona.
-
-Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried
-it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion.
-“Thanks! thanks! Senora!” she cried.
-
-“What is it she calls me, Jos?” asked his mother.
-
-“Senora,” he replied. “It only means the same as lady.”
-
-“Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round
-where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me
-whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken.”
-
-With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title
-of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.
-
-Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him
-both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally
-said, “I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one.”
-
-“Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos,” said Aunt Ri, “aout here 'n thes
-wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,--jest what they all say ter
-hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see
-ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet
-ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel
-enny different.”
-
-“There's lots doos, mammy,” replied Jos, affectionately. “Yer'd find out
-fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air
-ter everybody.”
-
-Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to
-her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she
-now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which
-raged outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked
-together for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and
-many of the boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at
-every blast of the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were
-burning a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer
-had hastily collected before the storm reached its height. A few more
-sticks lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor
-provision for a night in the snow. “Be ye warm, Jos?” she asked.
-
-“Not very, mammy,” he said; “but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's
-somethin'.”
-
-It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had
-always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered
-from it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern
-Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs.
-But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking,
-it was “jest like aour luck,” they said, and did nothing, or next to
-nothing, about it. Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; after
-all, they got more comfort out of life than many a family whose surface
-conditions were incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest
-child and only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and
-the doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across the
-plains in a wagon to California, they said, “What good luck 'Lizy was
-married last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm
-'n goin' right off.” And they sold their little place for half it was
-worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon, and set
-off, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the
-wagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pair
-of steers “to spell” the horses, and a cow to give milk for Jos, they
-drove before them; and so they had come by slow stages, sometimes
-camping for a week at a time, all the way from Tennessee to the San
-Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was getting well. Another six
-months, they thought, would see him cured; and it would have gone hard
-with any one who had tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyer
-that they were not as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they not
-saved Joshua, their son?
-
-Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly
-like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the
-lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all
-their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one
-will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean,
-quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having
-heard her name, “Maria,” in full; as a child, and until she was married,
-she was simply “Ri;” and as soon as she had a house of her own, to
-become a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by common
-consent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal
-aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and honor than she
-dreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her reach, that did not call
-her or know of her as “Aunt Ri.”
-
-“I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not,” she said
-reflectively; “ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come
-short o' wood, thet's clear.” As she spoke, the door of the hut burst
-open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both covered
-with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a
-little clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods from
-the house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering the
-horses in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff,
-seeing him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own,
-and followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm
-for hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to
-Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, then
-into hers; then he said devoutly, “The saints be praised, my Majella! It
-is a miracle!”
-
-Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. “Ef they ain't Catholics!”
- he thought. “What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammy
-they're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be.
-Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz
-born.”
-
-By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well
-acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of
-friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them.
-
-“Jeff,” said Aunt Ri,--“Jeff, they can't understand a word we say,
-so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seem
-hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but
-their own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uv
-Injuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want ter
-come nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ez
-sweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer could
-ask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest
-worships the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I
-see a white man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think
-yer ever did yerself?”
-
-Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her
-ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two
-of narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond
-bands or families they had encountered in their journey across the
-plains. Here she found herself sitting side by side in friendly
-intercourse with an Indian man and Indian woman, whose appearance and
-behavior were attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularly
-drawn.
-
-“I'm free to confess, Jos,” she said, “I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I
-hain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've took
-to like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger in
-Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but she
-don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yer
-notice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thet
-feller? 'N' I don't blame her.”
-
-Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro
-without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now
-there was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which
-made its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason.
-She had hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt
-with her. She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear.
-
-The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a
-solid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky.
-
-“It will be all gone by noon to-morrow,” said Alessandro to Jos, who was
-dreading the next day.
-
-“Not really!” he said.
-
-“You will see,” said Alessandro. “I have often known it thus. It is like
-death while it lasts; but it is never long.”
-
-The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the
-valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters
-for Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their
-primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great
-anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's
-anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there
-was good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro
-knew the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he
-was rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide
-in hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion;
-companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,--companionship,
-the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond.
-This hot-spring canon was only a short distance from the Saboba village,
-of which they had spoken as a possible home; which she had from the
-first desired to try. She no longer had repugnance to the thought of an
-Indian village; she already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any
-Indian people. She had become, as Carmena had said, “one of them.”
-
-A few days saw the two families settled,--the Hyers in their tent and
-wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in
-a little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to an
-old Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live with
-a daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own
-house. It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly made
-adobe bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. When
-Alessandro heard Ramona say cheerily, “Oh, this will do very well, when
-it is repaired a little,” his face was convulsed, and he turned away;
-but he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village,
-and there were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it.
-Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the
-earth floor; a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung
-on the walls, served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico
-canopy was again set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red
-manzanita frame, stood near. A small window in the door, and one more
-cut in the walls, let in light and air. On a shelf near one of these
-windows stood the little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San
-Pasquale.
-
-When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put
-both arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her
-eyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation:
-“Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!”
-
-Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had
-the expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not
-understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood
-it. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: “It beats all ever I
-see, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't no
-more'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, fur
-all three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow,
-Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does.
-I'd jest like you to see it.”
-
-And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri
-had been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which
-had never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and
-it could not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the
-good-hearted wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate
-disorderly genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when,
-one day, after the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly
-successful hunt, the two families had sat down together to a supper
-of Ramona's cooking,--stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles with
-chili,--their wonder was still greater.
-
-“Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos,” said Aunt Ri. “I never
-thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!”
-
-Ramona laughed. “No; it is Mexican,” she said. “I learned to cook from
-an old Mexican woman.”
-
-“Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the
-time to fuss with it,” said Aunt Ri; “but I may's well git the rule,
-naow I'm here.”
-
-Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He
-had been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona
-cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion
-Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake
-in him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in
-the village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little
-handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large;
-their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and
-two or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd
-the Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still,
-and there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was
-content. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin
-to it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house;
-Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when
-he spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not
-Alessandro comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before
-building.
-
-Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away
-on his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had
-gone to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or
-lace for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She
-did not believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say,
-“If there is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock
-before winter is over.” “Yes,” said another; “and look at those damned
-Indians over there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their
-village! It's a shame they should have that spring!”
-
-Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it
-locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning
-and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring
-in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the
-bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating
-ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated
-fields,--many acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself
-had fields there from which they would harvest all they needed for the
-horses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites
-took away this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring
-began in the very heart of the village, they could not take it without
-destroying the village. “And the Ravallos would surely never let that be
-done,” thought Ramona. “While they live, it will not happen.”
-
-It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled
-up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months
-had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters
-had seemed to do such good to Jos. But, “We ain't rich folks, yer know,
-not by a long ways, we ain't,” said Aunt Ri; “an' we've got pretty nigh
-down to where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git
-settled 'n some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done.
-Jeff, he's a master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't
-think it; 'n I kin airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good
-carpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du
-love weavin'. I donno how I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh
-about a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do
-yer think yer'd be contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free
-to say I didn't know's I should.”
-
-“Is it hard?” cried Ramona. “Could I learn to do it?” It was wonderful
-what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in
-these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly
-to her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation.
-
-“Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't,” said Aunt Ri. “I don't s'pose I'm much of a
-jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in
-the loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don't
-remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried to
-teach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn;
-it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o'
-the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in San
-Bernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' be
-glad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin'
-though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not but what thar's plenty
-o' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd
-say. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit
-for carpet-rags, than any place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftless
-lot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say
-Injuns, I don't never mean yeow, yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to
-me one mite like an Injun.”
-
-“Most of our people haven't had any chance,” said Ramona. “You wouldn't
-believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; how
-they are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes.”
-
-Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to
-Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast;
-she found no words to express her indignation.
-
-“I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it.” she said. “Why,
-they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee,
-fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell
-'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar.”
-
-“I think it's the people in Washington that have done it,” said Ramona,
-sadly. “Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?”
-
-“I bleeve so!” said Aunt Ri, “Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't,
-makes the laws?”
-
-“I bleeve so.” said Jos. “They make some, at any rate. I donno's they
-make 'em all.”
-
-“It is all done by the American law,” said Ramona, “all these things;
-nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has to
-be killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff told Alessandro,
-at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriff
-did; but he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't any
-help.”
-
-Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. “I sh'll make a business
-o' findin' out abaout this thing yit,” she said. “I think yer hain't got
-the rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!”
-
-“It's all cheating.” said Ramona; “but there isn't any help for it, Aunt
-Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money.”
-
-“I'm an Ummeriken!” cried Aunt Ri; “an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're
-Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not
-out er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're above
-cheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o'
-this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's a
-burnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be done
-abaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!”
-
-A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for
-want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to
-do something. “I ain't nobody,” she said; “I know thet well enough,--I
-ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout the
-country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeff
-hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest,
-nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aout
-what all this yere means she's been tellin' us.”
-
-But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands
-and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby
-had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for
-Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday
-no loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the
-spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that
-she had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill
-in the snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before
-that, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her
-pinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a
-feeble wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies
-that Aunt Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact,
-Aunt Ri from the first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's
-symptoms. Day after day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands
-clasped, his face set. Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out,
-he bore her in his arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer
-to the Virgin, to the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen,
-though money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in
-vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a
-doctor. “Find Aunt Ri,” she said; “she will go with you, with Jos, and
-talk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just as
-she did when they were here, only weaker and thinner.”
-
-Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San
-Bernardino. “Not to rights yit,” she said,--as if she ever would be.
-Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on
-pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for his
-mother,--a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and
-a roof; one small square window,--that was all; but if Aunt Ri had
-been presented with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased.
-Already she had woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one for
-a neighbor, and had promised as many more as she could do before spring;
-the news of the arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch
-all through the lower walks of San Bernardino life. “I wouldn't hev
-bleeved they hed so many rags besides what they're wearin',” said Aunt
-Ri, as sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri
-had gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly,
-impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of people, and
-knew who was who, and what was what, and why, among them all, far better
-than many an old resident of the town.
-
-When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from
-her high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before
-Alessandro had dismounted, cried: “Ye're jest the man I wanted; I've
-been tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeff
-couldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet,
-'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come in
-ther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowed
-yer hadn't got the rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on
-the side o' the thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an'
-they've jest sent out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,--to
-take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. He
-come last month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a
-spell, last week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's
-a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays
-him; yer don't hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o'
-savin', to git yer docterin' fur nuthin'!”
-
-Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said.
-He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English
-he tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do.
-
-“Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by
-the Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer
-ter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive
-down 'n' see her!”
-
-Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the
-door bringing a doctor!
-
-Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as
-interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new
-phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened
-with trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt
-Ri's voluble narrative.
-
-The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's
-errand he listened indifferently, and then said, “Is he an Agency
-Indian?”
-
-“A what?” exclaimed Aunt Ri.
-
-“Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?”
-
-“No,” said she; “he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him,
-jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in
-Saboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout.”
-
-“Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?” said the doctor,
-impatiently. “You ought to have taken him to the Agent first.”
-
-“Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?” asked Aunt Ri,
-wrathfully. “Thet's what I heerd.”
-
-“Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;”
- and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all
-the time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life and
-death; “I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians will
-sooner or later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd better
-take this man over there. What does he want now?”
-
-Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor
-said, “Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will
-help her;” and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle of
-dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it to
-Alessandro, saying, “That will do her good, I guess.”
-
-“Thanks, Senor, thanks,” said Alessandro.
-
-The doctor stared. “That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this
-office,” he said. “You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis.”
-
-“What's that, Jos?” said Aunt Ri, as they went out.
-
-“Donno!” said Jos. “I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good.”
-
-Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would
-it make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great
-Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man,
-who had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale
-farm for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl.
-
-From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri
-felt herself more at home.
-
-“I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv,” she said, with a wave
-of her hand toward Alessandro. “We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some
-metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd.”
-
-The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did
-so, “The man's never been here before, has he?”
-
-“No,” said Aunt Ri.
-
-“What is his name?”
-
-Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. “Stop him.”
- cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. “Don't let him write, till I know
-what he puts my name in his book for!”
-
-“Wait,” said Jos. “He doesn't want you to write his name in that book.
-He wants to know what it's put there for.”
-
-Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying
-to speak kindly, the Agent said: “There's no making these Indians
-understand anything. They seem to think if I have their names in my
-book, it gives me some power over them.”
-
-“Wall, don't it?” said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. “Hain't yer got any
-power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got it
-over? What yer goin' to do for 'em?”
-
-The Agent laughed in spite of himself. “Well, Aunt Ri,”--she was already
-“Aunt Ri” to the Agent's boys,--“that's just the trouble with this
-Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all my
-Indians on a reservation.”
-
-Alessandro understood the words “my Indians.” He had heard them before.
-
-“What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?” he asked fiercely. “I will not
-have my name in his book if it makes me his.”
-
-When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper.
-“That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him
-go, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!”
-
-“Oh, no, no.” cried Aunt Ri. “Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll
-make him understand.”
-
-Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly
-suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites
-except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was
-impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple
-and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. “Let us go!” he said. “I do not wish
-to sign any paper.”
-
-“Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!” said Aunt
-Ri. “Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin'
-his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injuns
-wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?” she added, turning to
-the Agent. “Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the
-Agency books.”
-
-Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his
-baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name
-be written, rather than that.
-
-“Let him write the name, then,” said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went
-out of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII
-
-THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too
-feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the
-Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to
-his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to
-ride. Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry
-him there in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way.
-Alessandro's name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had
-written it,--for this and nothing else,--to save the baby's life. Having
-thus enrolled himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on
-this the Agency doctor. And that his application might be all in due
-form, he took with him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving,
-before, that Aunt Ri's kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not
-one unnecessary word, was Alessandro's motto.
-
-To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride
-thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild
-statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing,
-when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father
-expected.
-
-“Good Lord!” he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in
-the office. “Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks
-the Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!”
-
-Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. “Do
-you understand English?” he asked sharply.
-
-“A very little, Senor,” replied Alessandro.
-
-The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it
-most emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not
-only out of the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the
-child's sake he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no
-such horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one
-would not know he was in motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor
-come down and look at the horse? Then he would see what it would be like
-to ride him.
-
-“Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies,” said the doctor. “I know
-they can run.”
-
-Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came
-into his eyes. “It is our only child, Senor,” he said. “It will take you
-but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the
-child dies, she will die.”
-
-“No! no!” The doctor was weary of being importuned. “Tell the man it
-is impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go about the
-country this way. They'd be sending for me down to Agua Caliente next,
-and bringing up their ponies to carry me.”
-
-“He will not go?” asked Alessandro.
-
-The interpreter shook his head. “He cannot,” he said.
-
-Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. “Ask him
-if he will come for money?” he said. “I have gold at home. I will pay
-him, what the white men pay him.”
-
-“Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!” said
-the doctor.
-
-And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard
-the coarse laugh, and the words, “Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?”
- which followed his departure from the room.
-
-When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart
-seemed breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon;
-she was plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the
-cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment
-for the hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor
-would not come. She had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro
-the account of the appointment by the Government of these two men to
-look after the Indians' interests. What else could their coming mean,
-except that, at last, the Indians were to have justice? She thought,
-in her simplicity, that the doctor must have died, since Alessandro was
-riding home alone.
-
-“He would not come!” said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse,
-wearily.
-
-“Would not!” cried Ramona. “Would not! Did you not say the Government
-had sent him to be the doctor for Indians?”
-
-“That was what they said,” he replied. “You see it is a lie, like the
-rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The child must
-die, Majella!”
-
-“She shall not die!” cried Ramona. “We will carry her to him!” The
-thought struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of
-it before? “You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so
-gently, she will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or
-you, all the way!” she continued. “And we can sleep at Aunt Ri's house.
-Oh, why, why did we not do it before? Early in the morning we will
-start.”
-
-All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had
-ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the
-child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know?
-
-The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready,
-ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she
-smiled. “The first smile she has given for days,” cried Ramona. “Oh, the
-air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba!
-Dear Baba!” and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the horse's side,
-Alessandro riding Benito. As they paced along, their eyes never leaving
-the baby's face, Ramona said, in a low tone, “Alessandro, I am almost
-afraid to tell you what I have done. I took the little Jesus out of the
-Madonna's arms and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the
-Madonna will grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did
-you ever hear of it?”
-
-“Never!” exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. “Never, Majella!
-How dared you?”
-
-“I dare anything now!” said Ramona. “I have been thinking to do it for
-some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till she gave
-me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not have courage to
-sit and look at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do
-it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and I told
-her, 'When we come back with our baby well, you shall have your little
-Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doctor
-cure our baby!' Oh, I have heard, many times, women tell the Senora they
-had done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never will she let
-the Jesus be out of her arms more than three weeks before she will
-grant any prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me,
-Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had
-brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only
-at night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. So she
-did not miss him so much; else she had brought you quicker.”
-
-“But, Majella,” said the logical Alessandro, “it was because I could not
-leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came.”
-
-“If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,”
- said Ramona, confidently.
-
-For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were
-really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling
-mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to
-love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But
-it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped,
-closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first.
-He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. “Majella!” he cried, in a tone
-which told her all.
-
-In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the
-dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her
-mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of
-agony swept over the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were
-heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove
-to caress her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky. “I have killed
-her! I have killed her!” she cried. “Oh, let me die!”
-
-Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again.
-
-“Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!”
- gasped Ramona.
-
-Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since
-his first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have
-forgotten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned
-to stone.
-
-When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran
-hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its
-hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it
-again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed
-out prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed,
-his arms folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still
-without speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned
-aloud, and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's
-coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed,
-she dressed the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then
-laying her in the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought
-altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the
-time when she embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song
-of the finches, the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro
-sitting on the steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that
-she,--that girl who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful
-altar-cloth? Was it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it
-Alessandro yonder, driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows
-rang, louder and louder! The air seemed deafening full of sound. With
-her hands pressed to her temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful
-unconsciousness set her free, for an interval, from her anguish.
-
-When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had
-lifted her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought
-she would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his
-lethargy. When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak.
-She closed them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. “I
-heard you out there,” she said.
-
-“Yes,” he replied. “It is done.” And he pointed to a little box of rough
-boards by the side of the cradle.
-
-“Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?” he asked.
-
-“Yes, Alessandro, I am ready,” she said.
-
-“We will hide forever,” he said.
-
-“It makes no difference,” she replied.
-
-The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never
-come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of
-San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba
-people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites,
-and be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona.
-But now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight
-of the dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had
-covered the box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over
-it fell in folds to the floor. “Why does not this mother weep? Is she
-like the whites, who have no heart?” said the Saboba mothers among
-themselves; and they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what
-to say. Ramona perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them.
-Benumbing terrors, which were worse than her grief, were crowding
-Ramona's heart now. She had offended the Virgin; she had committed a
-blasphemy: in one short hour the Virgin had punished her, had smitten
-her child dead before her eyes. And now Alessandro was going mad; hour
-by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes in him. What form would the
-Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let Alessandro become a raging
-madman, and finally kill both himself and her? That seemed to Ramona
-the most probable fate in store for them. When the funeral was over, and
-they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of the empty cradle
-Ramona broke down.
-
-“Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere,
-so it is not here!” she cried.
-
-“Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told
-her of?” he said.
-
-“No!” she replied earnestly. “No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me
-away!”
-
-A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. “It is well,”
- he said. “My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe
-there.”
-
-The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San
-Pasquale again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly
-at work, planning the details of their move and of the new life. He
-mentioned them one after another to Ramona. They could not take both
-horses; feed would be scanty there, and there would be no need of two
-horses. The cow also they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and
-the meat, dried, would last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped
-he could sell; and he would buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live
-well in these heights to which they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes,
-very safe; not only against whites, who, because the little valley was
-so small and bare, would not desire it, but against Indians also. For
-the Indians, silly things, had a terror of the upper heights of San
-Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived there, and money would not hire
-one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as this valley which Alessandro
-had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these features
-of safety in their hiding-place. “The first time I saw it, Majella,--I
-believe the saints led me there,--I said, it is a hiding-place. And
-then I never thought I would be in want of such,--of a place to keep my
-Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!” And he clasped her to his breast with
-a terrifying passion.
-
-For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was
-not an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard
-work to give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the
-wagon for quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to
-so much as name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt
-unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting
-from their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses
-and wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the
-winter.
-
-It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if
-he could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the
-chance. “He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,”
- she said. “They would be well cared for; and then, if we did not like
-living on the mountain, we could have the horses and wagon again when we
-came down, or Jos could sell them for us in San Bernardino. Nobody could
-see Benito and Baba working together, and not want them.”
-
-“Majella is wiser than the dove!” cried Alessandro. “She has seen what
-is the best thing to do. I will take them.”
-
-When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but
-with a look of horror she refused. “Never,” she cried, “one step on that
-accursed road! I will never go on that road again unless it is to be
-carried, as we brought her, dead.”
-
-Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be
-intolerable, spite of all its affectionate kindliness. “Tell her I love
-her,” she said, “but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year
-perhaps we will go down,--if there is any other way besides that road.”
-
-Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling.
-It rankled deep. “I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never,” she
-said. “I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head, to do 't!
-I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've got jest thet
-feelin' abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this yer world
-inter anuther.”
-
-The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern
-horizon of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door
-of the little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat
-there hour after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the
-heavy treadle, and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with
-tender yearnings at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote
-it, it glowed like fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds.
-
-“'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos,” Aunt Ri would
-say. “I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't it,
-ever sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout,
-sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air into 't; 't
-can't be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be
-like bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed ther
-couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but hisself. He
-found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all thar is,
-fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin.”
-
-The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very
-thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet
-strong enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San
-Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at
-present out of their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish
-was to have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one.
-They had tried in vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one
-suitable for light work. “'Pears like I'd die o' shame,” said Aunt Ri,
-“sometimes when I ketch myself er thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er
-gettin' thet Injun's hosses an' waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez
-much ez he hez so fur, he's goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he
-cums. I allow ter Jos 'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll
-dew good tew days' work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest
-like kittens; they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the
-world, 'n' more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a
-child. Pore thing,--'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!”
-
-Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went
-hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came
-towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since
-the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,--a
-lovely green canon with oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that
-he had thought of building his house if they had stayed in Saboba. But
-Alessandro laughed bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream.
-Already the news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for
-the settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold
-to this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley
-were all fencing in their lands; no more free running of stock. The
-Saboba people were too poor to build miles of fencing; they must soon
-give up keeping stock; and the next thing would be that they would be
-driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was none too soon that he
-had persuaded Majella to flee to the mountain. There, at least, they
-could live and die in peace,--a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest
-of deaths; but they would have each other. It was well the baby had
-died; she was saved all this misery. By the time she had grown to be
-a woman, if she had lived, there would be no place in all the country
-where an Indian could find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as
-these, Alessandro went up into the canon one morning. It must be done.
-Everything was ready for their move; it would take many days to carry
-even their few possessions up the steep mountain trail to their new
-home; the pony which had replaced Benito and Baba could not carry a
-heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona would dry the beef which
-would be their supply of meat for many months. Then they would go.
-
-At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began
-cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying.
-Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona
-went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from
-house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out
-excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them
-darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. “Hide it! hide it!” she cried,
-breathless; “hide the meat! It is Merrill's men, from the end of the
-valley. They have lost a steer, and they say we stole it. They found the
-place, with blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we did it.
-Oh, hide the meat! They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own,
-that he bought; he did not know anything about their steer!”
-
-“I shall not hide it!” cried Ramona, indignantly. “It is our own cow.
-Alessandro killed it to-day.”
-
-“They won't believe you!” said the woman, in distress. “They'll take it
-all away. Oh, hide some of it!” And she dragged a part of it across the
-floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied.
-
-Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened
-the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed:
-“By God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest impudent
-thieves! Look at this woman, cutting it up! Put that down, will you?
-We'll save you the trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin'
-it! Fork over, now, every bit you've got, you--” And he called Ramona by
-a vile epithet.
-
-Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came
-forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. “Out of my house, you dogs
-of the white color!” she said. “This meat is our own; my husband killed
-the creature but this morning.”
-
-Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they
-had all swarmed into the little room.
-
-“I say, Merrill,” said one of them, “hold on; the squaw says her husband
-only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs.”
-
-Ramona turned on him like lightning. “Are you liars, you all,” she
-cried, “that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is
-not an Indian in this village would steal cattle!”
-
-A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and
-at that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian
-woman had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and
-lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there.
-“Perhaps, when you know Injun's well's I do,” he said, “you won't be for
-believin' all they say! What's she got it hid under the bed for, if it
-was their own cow?” and he stooped to drag the meat out. “Give us a hand
-here, Jake!”
-
-“If you touch it, I will kill you!” cried Ramona, beside herself with
-rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming.
-
-“Hoity-toity!” cried Jake, stepping back; “that's a handsome squaw when
-she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She wasn't to
-blame; of course, she believes what her husband told her.”
-
-“You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!” muttered Merrill, as he
-dragged the meat out from beneath the bed.
-
-“What is all this?” said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, turning,
-with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking on, with an
-expression which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave her a
-sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had his hand on his gun.
-“What is all this?” he repeated. He knew very well.
-
-“It's that Temecula man,” said one of the men, in a low tone, to
-Merrill. “If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come
-here. You're up the wrong tree, sure!”
-
-Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to
-confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that
-he had made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him.
-Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which
-stood at the door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat
-rolled in the hide, he said: “There is the remainder of the beef.
-I killed the creature this morning, in the canon. I will take Senor
-Merrill to the place, if he wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed
-down in the willows yonder, yesterday.”
-
-“That's so!” cried the men, gathering around him. “How did you know? Who
-did it?”
-
-Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her
-shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were
-cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look
-on; she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the
-type of outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt
-a certain enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse
-of searchers for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the
-stolen steer, he maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At
-last, angry, ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his
-obstinacy, they rode away. Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was
-trembling. Her hands were like ice.
-
-“Let us go to the mountain to-night!” she gasped. “Take me where I need
-never see a white face again!”
-
-A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as
-he did.
-
-“I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no
-house,” he said; “and I must go and come many times, before all the
-things can be carried.”
-
-“It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro,” said Ramona,
-bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with
-which the man Jake had looked at her. “Oh! I cannot stay here!”
-
-“It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to
-take double at once; then we can go sooner.”
-
-“Who was it stole that man's steer?” said Ramona. “Why did you not tell
-them? They looked as if they would kill you.”
-
-“It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself
-came on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew very
-well, by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I tell? They
-think only Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the Mexicans
-steal more.”
-
-“I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal
-cattle,” said Ramona, indignantly.
-
-“That was not true, Majella,” replied Alessandro, sadly. “When they
-are very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose many
-themselves, and they say it is not so much harm to take one when they
-can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded twenty steers for his
-own, last spring, when he knew they were Saboba cattle!”
-
-“Why did they not make him give them up?” cried Ramona.
-
-“Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no help
-for us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!”
-
-A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to
-Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was
-haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one
-pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of
-the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day
-she saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door,
-looked in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's
-instinct was right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his
-mind to settle in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and
-he wished to have an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his
-house. Over in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an
-Indian mistress for three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa
-Ysabel, he had given the woman a hundred dollars and a little house for
-herself and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but held herself,
-in consequence of this temporary connection with a white man, much above
-her Indian relatives and friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry
-her, she had replied scornfully that she would never marry an Indian;
-she might marry another white man, but an Indian,--never. Nobody had
-held his brother in any less esteem for this connection; it was quite
-the way in the country. And if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw
-he had ever seen, to come and live with him in a smaller fashion, he
-would consider himself a lucky man, and also think he was doing a good
-thing for the squaw. It was all very clear and simple in his mind;
-and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the village one morning, he
-overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound her on the
-subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona trembled as he
-approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at him; but he, in
-his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously.
-
-“Are you married to your husband?” he finally said. “It is but a poor
-place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with me, you
-shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos';
-and--” Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry which haunted
-his memory for years, Ramona sprang from his side as if to run; then,
-halting suddenly, she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath
-coming fast. “Beast!” she said, and spat towards him; then turned and
-fled to the nearest house, where she sank on the floor and burst into
-tears, saying that the man below there in the road had been rude to her.
-Yes, the women said, he was a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona
-said no word to Alessandro. She dared not; she believed he would kill
-Jake.
-
-When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and
-the indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: “I
-could have told you better than to try that woman. She's married, fast
-enough. There's plenty you can get, though, if you want 'em. They're
-first-rate about a house, and jest's faithful's dogs. You can trust 'em
-with every dollar you've got.”
-
-From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she
-stood on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing
-around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce
-the sky, looking down upon the world,--it seemed the whole world,
-so limitless it stretched away at her feet,--feeling that infinite
-unspeakable sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which
-comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight,
-and cried: “At last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is
-freedom! This is joy!”
-
-“Can Majella be content?” he asked.
-
-“I can almost be glad, Alessandro!” she cried, inspired by the glorious
-scene. “I dreamed not it was like this!”
-
-It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to
-make it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the
-mountain's side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower
-than the eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of
-rocks and tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself
-made the southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly
-vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years
-on the mountain and not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out
-a crystal spring, which trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy
-green, the entire length of the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the
-lower end, and came out no more; many times Alessandro had searched for
-it lower down, but could find no trace of it. During the summer, when
-he was hunting with Jeff, he had several times climbed the wall and
-descended it on the inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran; and, to
-his joy, had found it the same in July as in January. Drought could not
-harm it, then. What salvation in such a spring! And the water was pure
-and sweet as if it came from the skies.
-
-A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening
-out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and
-under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations
-of Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone
-indeed, for it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that
-Indians had ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to
-be certain death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to
-go far up its sides.
-
-There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both
-Alessandro and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was
-soothed. She did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer
-to the sky. They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house,
-till the wheat and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised,
-when he came to the ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The
-valley thrust itself, in inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its
-southern wall; lovely sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to
-wound the soft, flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the
-planting was done, he began to fell trees for the house. No mournful
-gray adobe this time, but walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left
-on; alternate yellow and brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it.
-The roof, of thatch, tule, and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick,
-was carried out several feet in front of the house, making a sort of
-bower-like veranda, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once
-more Ramona would sit under a thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little
-corral for the sheep, and a rough shed for the pony, and the home was
-complete: far the prettiest home they had ever had. And here, in the
-sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant
-willow twigs a cradle. The one over which she had wept such bitter tears
-in the valley, they had burned the night before they left their Saboba
-home. It was in early autumn she sat plaiting this cradle. The ground
-around was strewn with wild grapes drying; the bees were feasting on
-them in such clouds that Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive
-them away, saying, as she did so, “Good bees, make our honey from
-something else; we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want
-these grapes for the winter;” and as she spoke, her imagination sped
-fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her, to
-give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of
-poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression could
-do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms.
-
-The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same
-whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona.
-She was friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully
-came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona
-saw in her always the picture of what her own mother might perchance
-be, wandering, suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning,
-filial instinct found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless,
-aged one.
-
-Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's
-birth. Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but
-Ramona felt no fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in
-his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles,
-“See, beloved! The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter
-again!”
-
-But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's
-face, he sighed, and said, “Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not
-yours!”
-
-“I am glad of it,” cried Ramona. “I was glad the first minute I saw it.”
-
-He shook his head. “It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,”
- he said. “They look ever on woe;” and he laid the baby back on Ramona's
-breast, and stood gazing sadly at her.
-
-“Dear Alessandro,” said Ramona, “it is a sin to always mourn. Father
-Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a heavier cross
-would be laid on us. Worse things would come.”
-
-“Yes,” he said. “That is true. Worse things will come.” And he walked
-away, with his head sunk deep on his breast.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV
-
-THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep.
-His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne,
-the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on
-the probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed
-itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might
-have saved him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained,
-reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell
-on what hour or what day her terrible fears first changed to an even
-more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread
-of which he had cried out the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon
-him. Strangely enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come,
-he did not know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness
-sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained situations;
-had no recollection of what had happened for an interval of time, longer
-or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort of sickness; he did not
-know that during those intervals his acts were the acts of a madman;
-never violent, aggressive, or harmful to any one; never destructive.
-It was piteous to see how in these intervals his delusions were always
-shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied
-that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off
-Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac
-swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly
-regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he believed
-he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw, where
-there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to
-passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on
-being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he
-suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose
-he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he
-buried his head in his hands. “What has happened to my memory?” he said.
-“I must be ill of a fever!” As he sat there, the goats, of their own
-accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of
-which stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up,
-said goodnaturedly, “All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my
-goats, but I thought you'd bring 'em back.”
-
-Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not
-interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of
-the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best
-horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of the risk
-there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of wandering.
-His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness
-in which it left her, but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental
-disorder might at any time take a more violent and dangerous shape. This
-anxiety was all the more harrowing because she must keep it locked in
-her own breast, her wise and loving instinct telling her that nothing
-could be more fatal to him than the knowledge of his real condition.
-More than once he reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling
-off his face, crying aloud, “The Americans have found us out, Majella!
-They were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way.” At such
-times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down and
-rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired, she would say,
-“You were all out of breath when you came in, dear. You must not climb
-so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so.”
-
-In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed
-Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for
-him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her.
-But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And,
-still more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's
-knowing what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on
-this mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot.
-
-And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their
-fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner.
-The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the
-sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer.
-The spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew
-along its edges thick as in beds.
-
-The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its
-mother had never known sorrow. “One would think she had suckled pain,”
- thought Ramona, “so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin
-has kept her well.”
-
-If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night
-and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the
-Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth
-of all their delicate chasing.
-
-At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San
-Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the
-baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the
-letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her
-from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what
-she should say and how she should send it,--she, who had never had in
-her loyal, transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since
-they were wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he
-would thank her.
-
-She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its
-being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen
-as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a
-confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete,
-it was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely
-wrought in open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed.
-No baby would there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and
-Alessandro had at last given his consent that the name should be
-Majella. It was a reluctant consent, yielded finally only to please
-Ramona; and, contrary to her wont, she had been willing in this instance
-to have her own wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon
-having the seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, “If I
-were to die,” she thought, “how glad Alessandro would be, to have still
-a Majella!”
-
-All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated
-herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days
-away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for
-the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the
-appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety
-increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before
-he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the
-horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. “Why comes he riding
-like that?” she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw
-to her surprise that he was riding a new horse. “Why, Alessandro!” she
-cried. “What horse is this?”
-
-He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his
-own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect
-his thoughts. “Where is my horse, then?” he said.
-
-“My God! Alessandro,” cried Ramona. “Take the horse back instantly. They
-will say you stole it.”
-
-“But I left my pony there in the corral,” he said. “They will know I
-did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I
-recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses.”
-
-Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary
-punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. “Oh, let me take
-it back, dear!” she cried, “Let me go down with it. They will believe
-me.”
-
-“Majella!” he exclaimed, “think you I would send you into the fold of
-the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I
-was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And
-that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am
-heavy with sleep.”
-
-Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was
-evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of
-danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her
-own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse;
-Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for
-his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood
-in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for him. He recognized her
-good-will, and put his nose to her face. “It must be because he was
-black like Benito, that Alessandro took him,” she thought. “Oh, Mary
-Mother, help us to get the creature safe back!” she said.
-
-When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced
-at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could
-Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point
-of waking him, when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs
-roused him instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran
-out to see what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,--only a
-moment, hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to
-hear a gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the
-same second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over
-Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the
-forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed
-to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he
-untied the black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and
-leaping into his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he
-rode away, he shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground,
-striving to lift Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing
-from the ghastly wounds. “That'll teach you damned Indians to leave
-off stealing our horses!” he cried, and with another volley of terrible
-oaths was out of sight.
-
-With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief,
-Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in
-hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been
-fatal, close to his heart,--the murderer aimed well; the after-shots,
-with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds
-Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and
-laid it over the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words
-she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father
-Junipero, when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the
-Indians, at San Diego. “Thank God.” he said, “the ground is now watered
-by the blood of a martyr!”
-
-“The blood of a martyr!” The words seemed to float in the air; to
-cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. “My
-Alessandro!” she said. “Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed
-martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says.” His hands were warm.
-She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching
-herself on the ground by his side, she threw one arm over him, and
-whispered in his ear, “My love, my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to
-Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My Alessandro! Is he not blest
-already? And soon we will be with him! The burdens were too great. He
-could not bear them!” Then waves of grief broke over her, and she sobbed
-convulsively; but still she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her
-feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither
-should she go for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the
-sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there
-on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out of the
-question. There was another Indian village nearer,--the village of the
-Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She had once been
-there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There was no human
-help nearer.
-
-Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him,
-whispered, “Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring
-friends.” As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying
-by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet
-to follow her. “No, Capitan,” she said; and leading him back to the
-body, she took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said,
-“Capitan, watch here.” With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and
-stretched himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his
-eyes followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight.
-
-The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped,
-baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn,
-her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she
-made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur
-after spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her
-heart sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro
-had been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered
-wherever they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her
-that she was lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with
-Alessandro; for fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the
-baby's sake, she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just
-as it had grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before
-her, and was panting more from terror than from running, lights suddenly
-gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a
-few moments she was there.
-
-It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,--a cluster
-of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken ground,
-on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud
-and high-spirited,--veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and
-independent.
-
-Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been
-murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with
-her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place.
-The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona
-had taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon
-as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the
-floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in
-time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for
-it, or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion
-seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words
-enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and
-higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses,--some to go up and
-bring Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to
-Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of
-Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to
-refrain from such violence.
-
-“Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?” he said. “Will you
-leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all
-if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him.”
-
-A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience
-had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
-that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like
-women, and do nothing, when a friend was murdered?
-
-“Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in
-vain,” said the wise old man. “It is not sweet to me, any more than to
-you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you
-to go.”
-
-The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned
-their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were
-to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more
-than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the
-valley. Alessandro should be avenged.
-
-As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he
-revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he
-would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than
-if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This
-Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to
-look after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows
-in San Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so
-far as to arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to
-Indians. If he were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might
-be troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make
-a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up
-at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man
-in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge
-Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender
-himself as having committed “justifiable homicide” on an Indian, or
-Mexican, he did net know which, who had stolen his horse. He told a
-plausible story. He professed not to know the man, or the place; but did
-not explain how it was, that, knowing neither, he had gone so direct to
-the spot.
-
-He said: “I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn,
-I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the
-horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I
-pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft
-ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very
-wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little
-ranch. As I came near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I
-discovered my horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or
-Mexican, I could not tell which, came out of the house, flourishing a
-large knife. I called out to him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered
-in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San
-Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still came towards me, brandishing the
-knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop,
-and I fired; still he did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not
-fall, I knocked him down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I
-shot him twice with my pistol.”
-
-The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the
-prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six
-men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early
-the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When
-they reached the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was
-locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the day before, except a few
-blood-stains on the ground, where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed
-greatly relieved at this unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he
-found that Judge Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley
-that night, proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles
-from the Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright.
-He declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in the
-night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with him to
-guard him.
-
-At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and
-head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his
-jury, and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of
-the murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they
-ought not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had
-taken place, and that now no inquest could be held.
-
-Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and
-heard the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first
-arrival. Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high
-fever and delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it
-on her breast. She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking
-incessantly, clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling
-snatches of prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token
-of consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes
-hide it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her.
-
-Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined;
-but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona.
-
-Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place
-immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his
-request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time
-for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the
-Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It
-was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to
-last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from
-the door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously,
-were what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have
-spoken many words.
-
-The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a
-merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business,
-on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It
-was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the
-hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar
-himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This
-last outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been
-glad to have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts.
-But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as
-fixed standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of
-communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more
-than any man's political head was worth. The word “justice” had lost its
-meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The
-valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon
-others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without
-a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to
-a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was
-relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's
-counsel, that “the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable
-homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him.”
-
-He comforted himself by thinking--what was no doubt true--that even if
-the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have been
-the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County jury
-that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if
-there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he
-derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also
-the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched
-Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death,
-could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have
-brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in
-possession of her senses.
-
-During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had
-seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His
-children knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife
-had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no
-one knew better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as
-incapable of stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar
-knew it; everybody knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits
-of wandering mind; and that when these half-crazed fits came on him,
-he was wholly irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of
-Farrar's deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from
-having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable
-rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what he did. “But he
-wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!” mused the judge.
-“He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white man down, that way.”
-
-Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not
-shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if
-Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There
-might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered,
-unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in
-his own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The
-longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this
-purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would
-go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done.
-
-But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to
-Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way.
-
-
-
-
-XXV
-
-EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search
-for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the
-place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the
-town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the
-San Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him
-to search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another
-took refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then
-disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also;
-equally in vain.
-
-He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had
-heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain
-would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew.
-
-“But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn
-his hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter.”
-
-“That might be,” they said; “nobody had ever heard of any such thing,
-however;” and very much they all wondered what it was that made the
-handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian.
-
-Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he
-lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had
-sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he
-heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely
-watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager,
-searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children
-knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find.
-Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could
-look like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made
-no confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for
-an Indian named Alessandro Assis.
-
-Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place,
-and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the
-Franciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California
-coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard
-Father Salvierderra say that there were in the neighborhood of each of
-the old Missions Indian villages, or families still living. He thought
-it not improbable that, from Alessandro's father's long connection with
-the San Luis Rey Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of these
-Indians. He would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched;
-no Indian unquestioned.
-
-San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San
-Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He
-had spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found
-Indians; miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart
-ached, and he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the
-old Mission buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder.
-Now Felipe understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and
-why his mother had been full of such fierce indignation against the
-heretic usurpers and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans
-once held. He could not understand why the Church had submitted,
-without fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the
-Missions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who
-had clung to their congregations to the last, and died at their posts.
-At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father
-Sarria, who had died there of starvation. “He gave us all he had, to the
-last,” said the old man. “He lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did;
-and one morning, before he had finished the mass, he fell forward at the
-altar and was dead. And when we put him in the grave, his body was only
-bones, and no flesh; he had gone so long without food, to give it to
-us.”
-
-At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew
-very little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they
-said. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They
-did not understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and
-the longer he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever
-gone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers
-at the College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father
-Salvierderra the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe,
-that no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to
-the last, they said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get
-any certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day
-before he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian
-monk, to whom he was greatly attached.
-
-In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible
-omen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart
-than before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown,
-unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not give up the
-search. As he journeyed southward, he began to find persons who had
-known of Alessandro; and still more, those who had known his father, old
-Pablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since
-the driving out of his people from Temecula; there was no knowing where
-any of those Temecula people were now. They had scattered “like a flock
-of ducks,” one Indian said,--“like a flock of ducks after they are
-fired into. You'd never see all those ducks in any one place again. The
-Temecula people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San Diego
-County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, however. The
-Senor would better see him. He no doubt knew about Alessandro. He was
-living in a room in the old Mission building. The priest had given it
-to him for taking care of the chapel and the priest's room, and a little
-rent besides. He was a hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; he
-would take the last dollar from a poor man.”
-
-It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he
-could not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he
-had gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large
-corner room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The
-room was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous
-fireplace; a few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these
-lay the woman, evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the
-feet; the wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side
-of the wall; there was not an article of furniture. “Heavens!” thought
-Felipe, as he entered, “a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole
-as this!”
-
-There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the
-fire. “I am sorry I have no candle, Senor,” said the man, as he came
-forward. “My wife is sick, and we are very poor.”
-
-“No matter,” said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. “I only want to
-ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me.”
-
-“Yes, Senor,” the man replied in a dogged tone,--no man of Temecula
-could yet hear the word without a pang,--“I was of Temecula.”
-
-“I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I
-suppose,” said Felipe, eagerly.
-
-At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second
-a bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But
-the swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which
-he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had
-recognized him. “Ha, ha!” he thought to himself. “Senor Felipe Moreno,
-you come to the wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!”
-
-It was Antonio,--Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing;
-Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a
-marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Moreno
-house should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on
-the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral
-a beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about
-it,--Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in
-his forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a
-horse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now,
-though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him.
-Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he
-get from Antonio!
-
-“Yes, Senor, I knew him,” he replied.
-
-“Do you know where he is now?”
-
-“No, Senor.”
-
-“Do you know where he went, from Temecula?”
-
-“No, Senor.”
-
-“A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for
-him.”
-
-“I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey.”
-
-“Where did you see him last?”
-
-“In Temecula.”
-
-“Was he alone?”
-
-“Yes, Senor.”
-
-“Did you ever hear of his being married?”
-
-“No, Senor.”
-
-“Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?”
-
-“Like this, Senor,” with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. “Most
-of us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan
-Grande, some way down into Lower California.”
-
-Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the
-man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he
-said, “I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly
-disappointed.
-
-“I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno,” thought Antonio. “I am sorry,
-Senor,” he said.
-
-It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous
-gold-piece, and said, “Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see
-you so poorly off.”
-
-The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful
-did he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they
-had fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the
-first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second
-time help drifted away from Ramona.
-
-At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence
-of Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst
-forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been
-alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale,
-where he had the promise of work.
-
-How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth.
-After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed
-the time so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a
-terrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week
-after Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus,
-alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and
-she had lent him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but
-they had never sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead,
-she had no more doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he
-would have come back to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that
-ever lived, was Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he
-not found him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro
-and his father. If there had been, it would have been better for their
-people. “If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you,” she said, “it
-would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of
-their homes here.”
-
-“But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?” asked Felipe.
-“The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myself
-have lost half my estate in the same way.”
-
-“Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!” she said.
-“'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said.”
-
-Felipe asked to see the violin. “But that is not Alessandro's,” he
-exclaimed. “I have seen his.”
-
-“No!” she said. “Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the
-Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were
-driven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money,
-if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come along
-yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money
-back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long before
-this.”
-
-Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell
-her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at
-first. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang
-to her feet, and cried: “If he's got that girl with him, he's hiding
-somewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding,
-every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your breath asking any
-questions of any of them. They will die before they will tell you one
-thing. They are as secret as the grave. And they, every one of them,
-worshipped Alessandro. You see they thought he would be over them, after
-Pablo, and they were all proud of him because he could read and
-write, and knew more than most of them. If I were in your place,” she
-continued, “I would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now
-it might just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here,
-hid somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged him to
-stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, though,
-where he could possibly have left her while he came here.”
-
-Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished
-as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might
-yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.
-
-“If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel,” he said
-as he rode away; “and we will come by this road and stop to see you.”
- And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San
-Pasquale.
-
-But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a
-perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the
-village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the
-remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro,
-Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,--the family of a man
-who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village
-stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found
-that there was no help, that the American had his papers from the
-land-office, in all due form, certifying that the land was his, had
-given the man his option of paying for the house or having it burned
-down. The man had bought the house; and it was only the week before
-Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and
-chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more,
-the people said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidro
-did not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He
-went to the north. That was all they knew.
-
-To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly
-searched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the
-house in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of
-the valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in
-it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley.
-The American had paid Alessandro something for it,--they did not know
-how much; but Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they
-had listened to him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it
-was too late for most of them to get anything for their farms. One man
-had taken the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's
-house because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. They
-were utterly disheartened, broken-spirited.
-
-In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses.
-“Where are you going?” he asked of several.
-
-“Who knows, Senor?” was their reply. “Where can we go? There is no
-place.”
-
-When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe
-heard her spoken of as “Majella,” his perplexity deepened. Finally he
-asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona.
-
-“Never.”
-
-What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another
-Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought
-himself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro
-had married this wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both
-like and unlike Ramona?
-
-Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara.
-
-Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here,
-as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at
-his first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had
-only just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was
-away in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do
-equally well, to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought
-out the tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath
-coming fast with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father
-Gaspara's hasty and blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names,
-“Alessandro Assis and Majella Fa--”
-
-Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have
-been married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom
-Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on
-which Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt
-compassion, or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what
-lonely, forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona?
-
-Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching
-farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one
-more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between
-San Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of
-the marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna.
-
-It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro
-Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian
-converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might
-have been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were
-dozens everywhere.
-
-This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro
-Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book.
-
-As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and
-woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children,
-two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles
-that their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was
-crying bitterly. “More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!”
- thought Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a piece
-of gold. She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money had
-fallen from the skies. “Thanks! Thanks, Senor!” she exclaimed; and the
-man coming up to Felipe said also, “God reward you, Senor! That is more
-money than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I
-could get work?”
-
-Felipe longed to say, “Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have
-work!” In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought,
-for both the man and the woman had good faces,--were young and strong.
-But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for
-its dwindled fortunes. “No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not,” he
-answered. “I live a long way from here. Where were you thinking of
-going?”
-
-“Somewhere in San Jacinto,” said the man. “They say the Americans have
-not come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks,
-Senor; may the saints reward you!”
-
-“San Jacinto!” After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his
-thoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known well
-in many a distant horizon. “Juan Can,” he said one day, “are there many
-Indians in San Jacinto?”
-
-“The mountain?” said Juan Can.
-
-“Ay, I suppose, the mountain,” said Felipe. “What else is there?”
-
-“The valley, too,” replied Juan. “The San Jacinto Valley is a fine,
-broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is
-mostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing.
-There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the
-San Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is a big
-village; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are
-fierce, Senor!”
-
-The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one
-mentioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps
-there were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's
-impressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see
-him both lifted up and cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little
-village street of San Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against
-the southern sky, a superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights
-from turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to
-himself, “She is there! I have found her!”
-
-The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt
-Ri, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden.
-“San Jacinto?” he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip.
-
-“Yes, Senor,” replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came
-whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping
-being knocked down. “That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet,
-with those black devils of his, if he don't look out,” he muttered, as
-he recovered his balance.
-
-Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his
-horse's sides, galloped after them. “Baba! by God!” he cried aloud in
-his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster,
-shouting as he rode, “Stop that man! Stop that man with the black
-horses!”
-
-Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba
-as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had
-happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken
-him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own
-horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, “Baba! Baba!” Baba knew his
-voice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For
-the second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It
-had never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title
-to Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise,
-therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud
-voice, looking suspiciously at Jos, “How did you get him?”
-
-Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor
-could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl.
-Before even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and
-took a long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said:
-“Wall, Senor,--I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,--it would take
-right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the
-other one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em.”
-
-Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona,
-Jos saw it, and chuckled.
-
-“Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,”
- he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and
-substance of what he had just said, adding: “They belong to an Indian
-over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his
-wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had been
-hers ever sence she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so
-much of hosses as they did.”
-
-Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon,
-throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, “Follow
-along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man.”
-
-Found! Found,--the saints be praised,--at last! How should he tell this
-man fast enough? How should he thank him enough?
-
-Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: “I can't explain to you; I
-can't tell you. Bless you forever,--forever! It must be the saints led
-you here!”
-
-“Oh, Lawd!” thought Jos; “another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not,
-Senor,” he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. “It wur Tom Wurmsee led me;
-I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon.”
-
-“Take me home with you to your house,” said Felipe, still trembling with
-excitement; “we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all
-you can tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over
-California.”
-
-Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet
-Ramona, he was sure. “I'll take you straight there,” he said; “but first
-I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me.”
-
-The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated
-scene of an arrest for horse-stealing. “Good for you, Tennessee!” and,
-“Fork over that black horse, Jos!” echoed from the departing groups.
-Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford
-to slight so notable an occasion as this.
-
-As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his
-mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her
-head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair.
-
-“Why, thar's mammy!” he exclaimed. “What ever hez gone wrong naow?”
-
-Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching
-her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, “Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar!
-Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!”
-
-Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound
-of the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's
-side. “Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro's
-got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz an
-Injun come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent.”
-
-“Good God! Alessandro killed!” burst from Felipe's lips in a
-heart-rending voice.
-
-Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was
-almost beyond him. “Oh, Lawd!” he gasped. Turning to Felipe, “Thet's
-mammy,” he said. “She wuz real fond o' both on 'em.” Turning to his
-mother, “This hyar's her brother,” he said. “He jest knowed me by Baba,
-hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar.”
-
-Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she
-sobbed out: “Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a
-Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less
-brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy,
-ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How air
-we ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd never
-live arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobody
-git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!”
-
-Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos.
-“Tell me in Spanish,” he said. “I cannot understand.”
-
-As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and
-incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, “Too late!
-Too late!” He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have
-survived the shock of seeing her husband murdered. “Too late! Too late!”
- he cried, as he staggered into the house. “She has surely died of the
-sight.”
-
-“I allow she didn't die, nuther,” said Jos; “not ser long ez she hed
-thet young un to look arter!”
-
-“Yer air right, Jos!” said Aunt Ri. “I allow yer air right. Thar
-couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby
-'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's
-some comfort.”
-
-Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he
-said, “How far is it?”
-
-“Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,” said Jos; “'n'
-the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz
-livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto
-Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro.”
-
-How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus
-familiarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, and
-who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death!
-Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, “We
-must go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?”
-
-“Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--” began Jos,
-energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he
-completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at
-Felipe's command.
-
-“Jos! He's got ter take me!” cried Aunt Ri. “I allow I ain't never gwine
-ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be
-ez she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by
-hisself.”
-
-Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed
-himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.
-
-“Yeow tell him, Jos,” she said, “I can't never git used ter bein' called
-Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest
-wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like
-I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust.
-I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these
-low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't stand
-bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in
-Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout
-sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier
-ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either
-un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest.”
-
-Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San
-Jacinto. She laughed.
-
-“Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,” she said. “I bet yeow I'd go clean back
-ter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n
-my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't
-begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the
-mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll
-be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get
-hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd.”
-
-Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence
-enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their
-thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at
-first appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical
-purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a
-bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.
-
-It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made
-the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out,
-Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, “Thet's lucky.”
-
-“Yes,” replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had
-spoken, “it is good. It shows to us the way.”
-
-“Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!” thought Aunt Ri.
-
-Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were
-hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when
-Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one
-they had seen for many miles, said: “We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno
-the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to
-git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able
-business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind
-o' people they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their
-time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long
-afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's
-work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The
-fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em
-up thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but
-thar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear
-sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed
-theirselves tew. They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes
-washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys,
-terrible pious. I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin'
-in God; I don't allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but
-they don't worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much.
-Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech
-doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n'
-I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these Merrills air reel
-nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!--Lawd! I don't believe
-he's understood a word I've said, naow!” thought Aunt Ri to herself,
-suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face.
-“'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks
-thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I
-allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between
-folks thet doos!”
-
-When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the
-mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from
-taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses
-like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel
-road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and
-tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois.
-Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.
-
-“I'm gwine whar he goes,” she said grimly to herself. “I ain't a gwine
-ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.”
-
-Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road
-had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at
-perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till
-it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill.
-Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen
-miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and
-grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern
-slopes. From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, led
-south, and up to the Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey,
-at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the
-country could find the last part of the way without a guide. Finally
-it was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in this
-capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed
-to the road. By the help of these the terrible ascent was made without
-difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the
-humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail.
-
-Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have
-experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the
-precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened,
-until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines
-were grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper
-curve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was
-their size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top,
-as by myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored
-away an acorn,--the woodpeckers' granaries.
-
-“Look at thet, naow!” exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; “an' thar's
-folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumb
-to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched
-with furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar
-Mexican I'm er travellin' with.”
-
-“That's so!” replied Sam Merrill. “When we fust got here, I thought I'd
-ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my
-meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their
-lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned
-the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have.”
-
-The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she
-chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter!
-But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he
-would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm
-to her again.
-
-They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early
-dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their
-carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be
-seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by
-four horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitation
-into which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had
-by no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new
-occurrence. The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had
-been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the
-flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan
-had so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth
-again this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering
-faces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the
-Capitan's house.
-
-Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and
-contempt. “Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid
-eyes on,” she said in a low tone to Merrill, “I allow these yere air the
-wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit,
-if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I
-allow.”
-
-“Oh, they're friendly enough,” laughed Merrill. “They're all stirred
-up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look
-so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a
-firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin'
-the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good
-horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got
-out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean,
-low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead;
-but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his
-horse, that he didn't know what he did.”
-
-Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had
-leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan,
-had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that
-she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if
-Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was
-conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not
-even the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now,
-or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just
-heard. The words seemed to choke her as she began. “Young man,” she
-said, “I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz
-great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet
-way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,--he's jest abaout yeour
-age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,--ef I should hear him
-say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by
-lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I
-sh'dn't!”
-
-What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never
-known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door,
-beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly
-rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she
-crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and
-said, “Come, speak to her.” He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on
-the floor. Was that Ramona,--that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes
-glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands
-of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and
-it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had
-exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain.
-
-Aunt Ri burst into tears. “Oh, Lawd!” she said. “Ef I had some 'old man'
-hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't
-growin' not more'n er mile back.” And without a second look, or another
-word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said,
-speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: “Yeow
-jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allow
-I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yer
-hosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it,” she cried, leaning
-out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. “Stop! Here
-'tis!” she cried. “I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along
-hyar;” and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining,
-gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely
-on their way back. “This'll cure her, ef ennything will,” she said, as
-she entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes
-roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them.
-“She's bad,” she said, her lips trembling; “but, 'never say die!' ez
-allers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n'
-yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone.”
-
-Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's
-nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it
-between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own
-hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and
-life won. Before night Ramona was asleep.
-
-Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers,
-each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona
-slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she
-had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a
-niche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just
-smouldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their
-poverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and
-Ramona during the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's
-hold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's
-picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were
-alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees,
-and a low-whispered murmur was heard.
-
-For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. “Oh,
-Lawd!” she thought, “the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!” Then a
-sudden revulsion seized her. “I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one
-out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I
-allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!”
- And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side
-slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it
-in the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and
-a lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.
-
-
-
-
-XXVI
-
-THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light
-streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt
-Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at
-them.
-
-“Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep
-agin, honey,” said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's
-eyelids, and compelling them down. “We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n'
-we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter
-sleep, honey.”
-
-The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way,
-and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove
-to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint
-question that came,--“Felipe?”
-
-“Yes, dear! I am here, too,” breathed Felipe; “go to sleep. We will not
-leave you!”
-
-And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her
-life.
-
-“Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better,” said Aunt Ri, with a sigh,
-deep-drawn like a groan. “I allow I dread ter see her reely come to.
-'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!”
-
-But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering
-in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle
-constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made;
-this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were
-those of old, who “had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being
-destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains,
-and in dens and caves of the earth.”
-
-When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific
-smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, “How did you find me,
-dear Felipe?” It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any
-sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an
-audible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again,
-and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes,
-she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, “Alessandro.” A convulsion
-passed over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.
-
-Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly
-responded: “Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n'
-Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n'
-well, 'n' tote ye out er this--” Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her
-vocabulary answered her need at that moment. “I allow ye kin go 'n a
-week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter
-talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey.
-We'll look arter everythin'.”
-
-Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips
-framed the words, “With you?”
-
-“Yes, dear, home with me,” said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. “I
-have been searching for you all this time.”
-
-An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How
-often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the
-sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than
-continued anxiety. “I am alone, dear Ramona,” he whispered. “There is no
-one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead
-a year.”
-
-The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. “Dear Felipe!”
- she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one
-inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for
-Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to “take care of Felipe”!
-Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and
-duty, on the side of life,--the battle was won, and won quickly, too.
-
-To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on
-Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious
-reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb
-by means of which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made
-repeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be
-that there had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would
-hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she
-reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water
-and “old man,” which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which,
-when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some
-significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the
-leaves.
-
-Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in
-the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like
-water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything,
-anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the
-atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He
-had travelled all over California, with four horses, in search of her.
-He was only waiting till she was well, to take her to his home in the
-south; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her
-husband, and have him hanged,--yes, hanged! Small doubt about that;
-or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor
-would see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these
-tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for
-well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but the
-bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians in
-their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their memories were long.
-Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him on
-that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himself
-knew,--nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitter
-whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with
-no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer
-himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and
-jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, and
-that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, and
-those were, “Senor, I will explain;” and that even after the first shot
-had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he had
-still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted deprecatingly,
-and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead.
-Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that killing an
-Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish in
-Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall
-this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who
-had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more
-unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another
-thing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by
-everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of
-it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely
-investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only
-clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that
-the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in
-the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a
-horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more
-than once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact
-of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell
-against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was
-as cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate
-in human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and
-apprehension, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever,
-at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the
-way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well
-he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that
-Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries
-relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the
-matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar.
-And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of
-the case, and went on to say, “If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's,
-the wife's, must be false,” and “at any rate, her testimony would not be
-worth a straw with any jury,” Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, “She
-of whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find
-that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a
-San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a
-brute!” and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise
-thing Farrar had done in making his escape.
-
-When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up
-her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young
-Merrill. “Fled ther country, hez he?” she said. “Wall, he kin flee ez
-many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow
-folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I
-say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef
-'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n'
-don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's
-lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd
-arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in
-hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't
-want to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to
-see no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar
-Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit,
-quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound
-he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet
-Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long
-arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow.
-He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a
-mite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East
-Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence
-between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o'
-ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then
-the women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they got
-fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they
-fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he
-picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed
-him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever
-did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free;
-'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like
-he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he,
-'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sed
-he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the
-country's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n'
-I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but
-he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with
-him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's
-ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but
-I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy,
-'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz
-bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,--I heern him,--'Wal,'
-sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll
-never git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.'
-Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz.
-'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said
-'t wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this
-miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er
-shot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery.”
-
-Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words.
-They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a
-stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character
-of the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such
-strata,--the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by
-successions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological
-deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened and
-ruffianly nature often remains--its forms not yet quite fossilized--a
-realm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, which
-the boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great
-catastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into
-the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his
-childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is
-thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and
-speech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was much
-in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Merrill. He was not
-many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest New
-England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as
-in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander yet at heart.
-
-“That's so, Aunt Ri!” he exclaimed. “That's so! I don't s'pose a man
-that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in
-the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin'
-business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you
-can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin'
-had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!”
-
-A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. “I hain't no
-patience left with yer,” she said, “er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez
-ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun,
-he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef
-he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral,
-same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n'
-the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter
-see?”
-
-“Left his own horse, so he did!” retorted Merrill. “A poor, miserable,
-knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse
-was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that.”
-
-“Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',” persisted Aunt
-Ri. “I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he
-wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter
-hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left
-his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n'
-fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow
-me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I
-allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;” and nothing that Merrill said
-could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death.
-But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech
-eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The
-last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in
-the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. “I'll never hear a
-word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,” she said. “The way the
-pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony,
-beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most.
-'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till
-Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha'
-taken care on her till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took
-care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing
-left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take a
-lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done
-talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all
-thet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody
-b'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet
-way tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull
-world could see what I've seen! Thet's all!”
-
-It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed.
-Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a
-protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's
-and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet
-conscious of a loss,--of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of
-the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their
-hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as
-their sister,--one of them; as such, she would have had share in all
-their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship
-and deprivation; and she was being borne away from it, like one rescued,
-not so much from death, as from a life worse than death.
-
-The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She
-embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days
-suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe
-that Ramona's should not suffer. “Sister, you have given me my child,”
- she cried; “I can never thank you; I will pray for you all my life.”
-
-She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a
-little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than
-hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice
-spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had
-characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene
-and sunny then,--serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little
-duties,--had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm,
-if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did not
-desert her even now.
-
-Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry,
-humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. “I allow I donno but
-I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew,” she said, “ef I wuz ter live
-'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T
-beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would
-say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin
-see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv
-prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet
-keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n
-it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin
-Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these
-days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!”
-
-The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a
-mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go
-home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a
-treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at
-it. “Dear girl,” he thought; “it is the nearest she has ever come to
-knowing what a mother's love is like!” And he lingered in San Bernardino
-week after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough
-to bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying
-was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering
-companionship.
-
-Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife.
-She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful
-morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her
-favorite pattern, the “hit-er-miss” pattern, as she called it; no set
-stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the
-indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a
-single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious
-blending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject,
-too, of not unphilosophical reflection.
-
-“Wall,” she said, “it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's
-'hit' oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way
-ther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when
-they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter
-be with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss'
-pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon
-how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd
-think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought
-'t wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a
-'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't
-never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest
-ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come,
-'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 't
-done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thet
-lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest ther
-wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it's
-what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz
-told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn fool
-gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll take ther
-'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along.”
-
-When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent
-arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the
-time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was
-burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to
-give, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent
-himself at home.
-
-“I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,” she
-said; “I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered.
-We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother.
-He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off.”
-
-Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not
-come to see him; he had expected to hear from her.
-
-“Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she
-wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in
-talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to
-no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so.”
-
-“Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me,” said the Agent. “I was
-going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring
-the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed.”
-
-“Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns,
-I notice,” broke in Aunt Ri; “hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the
-marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour
-doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell--them
-wuz thar words--thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.”
-
-“That's so!” said the Agent. “So I am; I am determined to break up this
-vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do
-anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and
-a shame.”
-
-“Thet's so, I allow ter yeow,” said Aunt Ri. “Thar ain't any gainsayin'
-thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin'
-whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes
-'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet.”
-
-“That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri,” he said. “I
-have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have.”
-
-“What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?” broke in Aunt Ri.
-
-The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical
-method of questioning was inconvenient.
-
-“I only mean that they are under my charge,” he said. “I don't mean that
-they belong to me in any way.”
-
-“Wall, I allow not,” retorted Aunt Ri, “enny more 'n I dew. They air
-airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've
-been 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had
-my eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet
-they call the Agency doctor,--what's he got ter do?”
-
-“To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,” replied
-the Agent, promptly.
-
-“Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why
-Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,--thet's why he put his name
-down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz
-high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out
-er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore;
-'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n'
-the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N'
-they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died
-afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the
-rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells
-till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I
-wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow.
-Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer
-knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go.”
-
-“No, Aunt Ri,” said the Agent; “I could not have done that; he is only
-required to doctor such Indians as come here.”
-
-“I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,” said Aunt
-Ri; “'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I
-expect he gits well paid?” and she paused for an answer. None came. The
-Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary
-the Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard
-prescriptions to Indians he never saw.
-
-After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: “Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I
-allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these
-Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em
-'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to
-giv' 'em ennything,--food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.”
-
-“I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times
-of special suffering;” replied the Agent, “a very little; and the
-Department has appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not
-enough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are in
-the main self-supporting.”
-
-“Thet's jest it,” persisted Aunt Ri. “Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n'
-thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter
-hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer
-can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say
-killin' 'em,--ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin'
-whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say--” Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to
-seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence
-very differently from her first impulse,--“I'm free ter say I shouldn't
-like ter stan' in yer shoes.”
-
-“You may very well say that, Aunt Ri,” laughed the Agent, complacently.
-“It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least
-satisfactory.”
-
-“Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',” rejoined the
-indefatigable Aunt Ri; “but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so
-be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.” And she looked
-honestly puzzled.
-
-“Look there, Aunt Ri!” said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of
-books and papers. “All those to be gone through with, and a report to be
-made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I
-buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for
-less pay.”
-
-“I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,” retorted Aunt Ri,
-good-naturedly satirical, “ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!” And she
-took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and
-function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.
-
-Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a
-dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito,
-gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed
-gliding; Felipe by her side,--the dear Felipe,--his eyes wearing the
-same bright and loving look as of old,--what strange thing was it which
-had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one
-in her arms,--she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but
-her nerves were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful
-anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness
-of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be long
-before Ramona would fully realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst
-anguish was yet to come.
-
-Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with
-a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid,
-always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each
-thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he
-knew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards
-him. “Grateful to me!” he thought. “To me, who might have spared her all
-this woe if I had been strong!”
-
-Never would Felipe forgive himself,--no, not to the day of his death.
-His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a
-pitiful thing was that to render!
-
-As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that
-she had shed tears. At last he said to her: “Dearest Ramona, do not fear
-to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better
-for you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to
-wounds.”
-
-“I do not think so, Felipe,” replied Ramona. “Tears are only selfish and
-weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always
-to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also
-that I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father
-Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how
-much we might be suffering.”
-
-“That is more than human power can do!” said Felipe.
-
-“I think not,” replied Ramona. “If it were, Father Salvierderra would
-not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile
-his face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years
-before he died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep,
-from the great wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never
-saw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone,
-Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years
-in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought
-that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts
-into my mind. I hope I can tell them to my child when she is old enough.
-She will understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's
-soul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I
-speak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and
-the sky and the sun, and all trees know them.”
-
-When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He
-himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke
-it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There
-were to be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely,
-sorrowing, sunny sister of his.
-
-When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch
-for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can
-heading the group; only two absent,--Margarita and Luigo. They had been
-married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where
-Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd.
-
-On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting.
-Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the
-home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of
-what their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed
-that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would
-be terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painful
-associations. “And the Senora gone, too,” said one of the outdoor hands,
-as they were talking it over; “it's not the same place at all that it
-was when the Senora was here.”
-
-“Humph!” muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than
-ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. “Humph! that's
-all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you!
-We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that,
-my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the
-Senorita than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day.
-They can have theirs now.”
-
-When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona--pale, but with her
-own old smile on her face--coming towards them with her babe in her
-arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in the
-group.
-
-Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards
-her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, “I am sure you will
-love my baby, Marda!”
-
-“Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!” they cried; and closed
-up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her
-from one to another.
-
-Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, “Give her
-to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;” and she moved
-toward the inner door.
-
-“This way, dear; this way,” cried Felipe. “It is Father Salvierderra's
-room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the
-baby!”
-
-“Thanks, kind Felipe!” cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her
-words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in
-returning,--the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It would
-be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would never
-enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!
-
-Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom
-hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face
-of this beautiful woman,--so much more beautiful now than she had been
-before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought
-her changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which
-would for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's
-thoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There
-was a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by
-the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted.
-It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own
-humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply
-to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect
-that it was “a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita
-years ago,--what if he were to do it yet?” she said, also under her
-breath. “It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself!
-Not but that it would be a great thing if it could be!”
-
-And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often
-had come about,--the presence of a little child in her house, on the
-veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence.
-But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly
-had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished
-Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the
-house,--Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own,
-he could not have felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little
-thing had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in
-his arms, one little hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips,
-and kissed again and again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in
-Felipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the
-fondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month
-by month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's
-life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant
-fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandro
-did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: it meant an
-unchanged relation.
-
-One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,--the concealed treasure. A
-sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of
-it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he
-delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held
-his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before
-Ramona interrupted him. “Oh, yes!” she said. “I knew about those things;
-your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish
-sometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given
-to the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with
-them if I married against your mother's wishes.”
-
-It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: “Dear Ramona,
-they were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died;
-and I suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me
-about them just as she was dying.”
-
-“But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?” asked Ramona,
-simply.
-
-“Why?” cried Felipe. “Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only.
-I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that
-you were dead and had left no children.”
-
-Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. “You have not read
-the Senora Ortegna's letter?” she said.
-
-“Yes, I have,” he replied, “every word of it.”
-
-“But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against
-the Senora Moreno's will.”
-
-Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? “No, dear,” he said, “that was not
-the word. It was, if you married unworthily.”
-
-Ramona reflected. “I never recollected the words,” she said. “I was
-too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry
-unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to
-take them for my child?”
-
-“Perfectly,” said Felipe.
-
-“Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?”
-
-“I am sure of it, dear.”
-
-“I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did
-not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was
-why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one
-thing,--a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it;
-but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a
-half-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved
-sorely for it.”
-
-The next day Ramona said to Felipe: “Dear Felipe, I have thought it all
-over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to
-have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to
-say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,--to Father
-Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would rather
-have them go.”
-
-“Yes, dear,” said Felipe; “and then we will put them in some safer
-place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one
-has stolen them all these years!”
-
-And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written
-bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing
-we call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we
-can have much to do with its shaping.
-
-          *****
-
-Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,--smoothly to the eye. Nothing
-could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days,
-with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all.
-Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was
-not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth,
-from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at
-home and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running,
-frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely
-drifted into this happy shelter,--the little Ramona. As unconscious of
-aught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was
-her delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been
-from the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set
-free from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.
-
-Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an
-added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when
-she felt that she for the first time waked to the realization of her
-bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out,
-mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled
-with this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly
-to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of
-joyfulness. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till
-she more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the night
-in prayer, as it had been his wont to do.
-
-No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them;
-and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new
-victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first
-dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted
-lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the
-world where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her
-every act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for
-him, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, all
-Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy.
-
-There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning
-desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life
-in California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims,
-standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their
-boasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and
-development,--all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for
-money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour,
-thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and
-gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life
-under the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his
-hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted.
-He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish
-tongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for
-Mexico,--for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an
-exile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree,
-and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this
-change, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing
-to go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had
-known nothing but sufferings.
-
-At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried:
-“Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not
-think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful
-dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico.”
-
-And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and
-wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter
-the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of
-race.
-
-The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he
-could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich
-American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in
-the valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received
-for it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the
-realization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour
-that this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new
-expression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An
-untried future beckoned,--a future which she would embrace and conquer
-for her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the
-first time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new
-love? She could not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw
-it, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait
-long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without
-hope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But
-patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day when
-Felipe first thought to himself, “She will yet be mine,” it grew harder,
-and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his love in words.
-Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and comfort to him,
-grew at times intolerable; and again and again her gentle spirit
-was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had displeased him, so
-strangely did he conduct himself.
-
-He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his
-passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there
-came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.
-
-It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on
-board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back
-to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in
-the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to
-float up around her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed
-at her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she
-put her hand in his, and said, as she had said hundreds of times before,
-“Dear Felipe, how good you are!” he clasped her hands wildly, and cried,
-“Ramona, my love! Oh, can you not love me?”
-
-The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona
-gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she
-knew all. “Felipe! My brother!” she cried, and stretched out her hands
-as if in warning.
-
-“No! I am not your brother!” he cried. “I will not be your brother! I
-would rather die!”
-
-“Felipe!” cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to
-himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain.
-
-“Forgive me, my sweet one!” he exclaimed. “I will never say it again.
-But I have loved you so long--so long!”
-
-Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the
-shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet
-gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme
-moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole
-past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. “Dear Felipe,” she said,
-clasping her hands, “I have been very selfish. I did not know--”
-
-“Of course you did not, love,” said Felipe. “How could you? But I have
-never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to
-love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have
-spoken; I cannot hide it any more.”
-
-Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. “I have always
-loved you,” she said. “I love no other living man; but, Felipe,”--her
-voice sank to a solemn whisper,--“do you not know, Felipe, that part of
-me is dead,--dead? can never live again? You could not want me for your
-wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!”
-
-Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. “You
-would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife,” he cried.
-“Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself
-dead or alive!”
-
-Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not
-know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This
-gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she
-would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only
-the broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of
-passion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,--ah, how unlike was she
-to that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, “Take
-me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!”
-
-Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with
-infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe
-loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved
-her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words
-having been spoken? “I will be your wife, dear Felipe,” she said,
-speaking solemnly, slowly, “if you are sure it will make you happy, and
-if you think it is right.”
-
-“Right!” ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon.
-“Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will
-forget you ever said that part of you was dead!”
-
-A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it
-might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.
-
-General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of
-Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after
-their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda
-and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them.
-The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly
-enhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young
-Senora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled
-with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was
-distinguished in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life.
-Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood
-like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each
-other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice
-saying, “Majella!” This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart had
-kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,--loyal, loving,
-serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.
-
-Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all
-beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the
-most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one
-who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the
-Senor,--Ramona,--Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA ***
-
-***** This file should be named 2802-0.txt or 2802-0.zip *****
-This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
-        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/0/2802/
-
-Produced by David Reed
-
-Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
-will be renamed.
-
-Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
-one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
-(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
-permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
-set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
-copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
-protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
-Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
-charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
-do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
-rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
-such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
-research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
-practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
-subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
-redistribution.
-
-
-
-*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
-
-THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
-PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
-
-To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
-distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
-(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
-Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
-Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
-http://gutenberg.org/license).
-
-
-Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works
-
-1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
-and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
-(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
-the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
-all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
-If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
-terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
-entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
-
-1.B.  “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark.  It may only be
-used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
-agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
-things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
-paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
-and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
-
-1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
- or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
-collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
-individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
-located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
-copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
-works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
-are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
-Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
-freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
-this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
-the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
-keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
-Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
-
-1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
-what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
-a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
-the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
-before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
-creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
-Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
-the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
-States.
-
-1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
-
-1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
-access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
-whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
-phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
-Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
-copied or distributed:
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
-from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
-posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
-and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
-or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
-with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the
-work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
-through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
-Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
-1.E.9.
-
-1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
-with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
-must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
-terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
-to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
-permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
-
-1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
-work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
-
-1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
-electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
-prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
-active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm License.
-
-1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
-compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
-word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
-distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
-“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version
-posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
-you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
-copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
-request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other
-form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
-
-1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
-performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
-unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
-access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
-that
-
-- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
-     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
-     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
-     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
-     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
-     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
-     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
-     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
-     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
-     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
-     address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to
-     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
-
-- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
-     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
-     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-     License.  You must require such a user to return or
-     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
-     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
-     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
-     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
-     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
-     of receipt of the work.
-
-- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
-     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
-forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
-both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
-Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
-Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
-
-1.F.
-
-1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
-effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
-public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
-collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
-“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
-corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
-property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
-computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
-your equipment.
-
-1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
-of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
-fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
-LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
-PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
-TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
-LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
-INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
-DAMAGE.
-
-1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
-defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
-receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
-written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
-received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
-your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
-the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
-refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
-providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
-receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
-is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
-opportunities to fix the problem.
-
-1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
-in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
-WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
-WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
-
-1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
-warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
-If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
-law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
-interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
-the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
-provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
-
-1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
-trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
-providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
-with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
-promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
-harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
-that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
-or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
-work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
-Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
-
-
-Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
-electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
-including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
-because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
-people in all walks of life.
-
-Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
-assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
-goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
-remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
-and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
-To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
-and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
-and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
-
-
-Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
-Foundation
-
-The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
-501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
-state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
-Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
-number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
-http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
-permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
-
-The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
-Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
-throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
-809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
-business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
-information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
-page at http://pglaf.org
-
-For additional contact information:
-     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
-     Chief Executive and Director
-     gbnewby@pglaf.org
-
-
-Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
-spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
-increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
-freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
-array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
-($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
-status with the IRS.
-
-The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
-charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
-States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
-considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
-with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
-where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
-SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
-particular state visit http://pglaf.org
-
-While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
-have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
-against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
-approach us with offers to donate.
-
-International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
-any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
-outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
-
-Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
-methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
-ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
-To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
-
-
-Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works.
-
-Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
-concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
-with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
-Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
-
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
-editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
-unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
-keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
-
-
-Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
-
-     http://www.gutenberg.org
-
-This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
-including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
-subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.zip b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.zip
deleted file mode 100644
index 2f943a8..0000000
--- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.zip
+++ /dev/null
diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h.zip b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h.zip
deleted file mode 100644
index b1f1419..0000000
--- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h.zip
+++ /dev/null
diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h/2802-h.htm b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h/2802-h.htm
deleted file mode 100644
index e57e97d..0000000
--- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h/2802-h.htm
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,17805 +0,0 @@
-<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
-
-<!DOCTYPE html
-   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
-   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
-
-<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
-  <head>
-    <title>
-      Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-    </title>
-    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
-
-    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
-    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
-    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
-    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
-    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
-    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
-    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
-    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
-    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
-    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
-    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
-    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
-    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
-    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
-               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
-               text-align: right;}
-    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
-
-</style>
-  </head>
-  <body>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: Ramona
-
-Author: Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-Release Date: December 31, 2008 [EBook #2802]
-Last Updated: March 15, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Reed, and David Widger
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <h1>
-      RAMONA
-    </h1>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <h2>
-      By Helen Hunt Jackson
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      <br /> <br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <br /> <br />
-    </p>
-    <blockquote>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
-      </p>
-      <p>
-        <br />
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXI </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIII </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIV </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXV </a>
-      </p>
-      <p class="toc">
-        <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVI </a>
-      </p>
-      <p>
-        <br /><br />
-      </p>
-    </blockquote>
-    <p>
-      <br /> <br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      I
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing was
-      late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to put it
-      off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the Senora's
-      eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head of his
-      mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch, the
-      Senora thought. It had been always, &ldquo;Ask Senor Felipe,&rdquo; &ldquo;Go to Senor
-      Felipe,&rdquo; &ldquo;Senor Felipe will attend to it,&rdquo; ever since Felipe had had the
-      dawning of a beard on his handsome face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all
-      questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place,
-      from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the
-      Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and
-      generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,&mdash;as for that matter,
-      exceedingly clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever
-      for the day and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere
-      surface of it, if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow
-      hot and cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest
-      of New Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,&mdash;the
-      waves of them all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic
-      Church had had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what
-      had brought her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said
-      anything about herself, which she never did,&mdash;one of her many
-      wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to
-      veil such an imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always
-      passing through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did
-      it; adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous
-      force, wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would
-      suspect it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her
-      rosary hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an
-      expression of mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked
-      simply like a sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like
-      her race, but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice
-      heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either
-      loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech,
-      which came near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which
-      people speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear
-      as if she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took
-      heart; when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that
-      the speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly
-      that she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired,
-      or in a way to best attain her ends.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head
-      shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him
-      from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which
-      would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were
-      ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back with
-      the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture. &ldquo;There were
-      plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,&rdquo; he said one morning,&mdash;&ldquo;at
-      least a thousand;&rdquo; and by the time they were done, Luigo would surely be
-      back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in bed, had not he,
-      Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the wool, when Senor
-      Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The Senora did not realize
-      how time was going; there would be no shearers to be hired presently,
-      since the Senora was determined to have none but Indians. Of course, if
-      she would employ Mexicans, as all the other ranches in the valley did, it
-      would be different; but she was resolved upon having Indians,&mdash;&ldquo;God
-      knows why,&rdquo; he interpolated surlily, under his breath.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not quite understand you, Juan,&rdquo; interrupted Senora Moreno at the
-      precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had
-      escaped Juan's lips; &ldquo;speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in
-      my old age.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on Juan
-      Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal as one of
-      his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he instantly and
-      involuntarily said, &ldquo;Beg your pardon, Senora.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan,&rdquo; the Senora replied with exquisite
-      gentleness; &ldquo;it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I have fancied
-      for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did. But about the
-      Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he had positively
-      engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn, Alessandro's band
-      from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for them. Senor Felipe
-      will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the best shearers in the
-      country. He will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks, and the poor
-      sheep must bear their loads a few days longer. Are they looking well, do
-      you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? General Moreno used to say
-      that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a pound, while it was on the
-      sheep's backs.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senora,&rdquo; answered the mollified Juan; &ldquo;the poor beasts look
-      wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all winter.
-      We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any. Though,
-      to be sure, there is no telling in what case that&mdash;Luigo will bring
-      his flock back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which
-      Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous
-      epithet before Luigo's name.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan
-      Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down as
-      usual to the score of young Senor Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: &ldquo;Senor Felipe can see no
-      fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him, he
-      will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep worse
-      than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While I can
-      have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well; but he is
-      no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of the very lambs
-      themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and starve them the
-      next; and I've known him to forget to give them water. When he's in his
-      dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the Senora's
-      countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen it. His eyes
-      had been turned away from her, looking down into the upturned eager face
-      of his favorite collie, who was leaping and gambolling and barking at his
-      feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Down, Capitan, down!&rdquo; he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him; &ldquo;thou
-      makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito,&rdquo; said the Senora in a sweet but
-      icy tone. &ldquo;It is not well for one servant to backbite another. It gives me
-      great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father Salvierderra comes,
-      next month, you will not forget to confess this sin of which you have been
-      guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being. If Senor Felipe listens
-      to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out homeless on the world some
-      day; and what sort of a deed would that be, Juan Canito, for one Christian
-      to do to another? I fear the Father will give you penance, when he hears
-      what you have said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senora, it is not to harm the lad,&rdquo; Juan began, every fibre of his
-      faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more from
-      him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual slow
-      pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left hand,
-      and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Prayers, always prayers!&rdquo; thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed
-      her. &ldquo;If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight
-      road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to do, if he's
-      the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to stand by,
-      and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything? Ah, but it
-      was an ill day for the estate when the General died,&mdash;an ill day! an
-      ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set me to
-      confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've got me
-      to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's a man,
-      maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!&rdquo; And the old man stamped his foot with a
-      not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in which he felt
-      himself put.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!&rdquo; he muttered aloud. &ldquo;Ay, that
-      will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,&rdquo;&mdash;at which slip of
-      the tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,&mdash;&ldquo;and I'll ask him
-      to give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy
-      at the head of everything, and a doting mother who thinks he has the
-      wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden time.
-      He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now, much
-      smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill day indeed,
-      the saints rest his soul!&rdquo; Saying this, Juan shrugged his shoulders, and
-      whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of the south side
-      of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for twenty odd years
-      his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning. Before
-      he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, a thought struck him.
-      He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick sensitiveness of his
-      breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could only come from
-      something in connection with sheep; and, true to his instinct of duty,
-      pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run, and looked up in his
-      master's face waiting for explanation and signal. But Juan did not observe
-      him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's see.
-      To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come off till
-      the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the chapel, and
-      each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least two days longer to
-      feed, for the time they will lose by that and by the confessions. That's
-      what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad. I recollect now, it was the
-      same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a good thing for those poor
-      Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and then; and it's like old
-      times to see the chapel full of them kneeling, and more than can get in at
-      the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's heart to see them all there,
-      as if they belonged to the house, as they used to: and now I know when
-      it's to be, I have only to make my arrangements accordingly. It is always
-      in the first week of the month the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor
-      Felipe will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will
-      be nearer two; ten days or thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A
-      plague on that Luigo for not being back here. He's the best hand I have to
-      cut the willow boughs for the roofs. He knows the difference between one
-      year's growth and another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the
-      silly dreaming head he's got on his shoulders.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor Felipe's
-      purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him in good
-      humor for the day,&mdash;good humor with everybody, and himself most of
-      all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the
-      whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole
-      width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner of
-      his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid content.
-      The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen quarters of
-      Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable as in the grand
-      old days of the General's time, ran back and forth across Juan's legs,
-      fell down between them, and picked themselves up by help of clutches at
-      his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though loudly scolded and
-      warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?&rdquo; saucily asked
-      Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out
-      of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled that
-      the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as
-      Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so safe
-      in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the
-      under-shepherds could testify.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita,&rdquo; answered Juan
-      quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock bow
-      towards the window.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He! he! Senorita, indeed!&rdquo; chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the
-      cook. &ldquo;Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his
-      betters;&rdquo; and she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean water so
-      deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had the
-      appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand the
-      whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, all set
-      up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed to the four corners of the yard as
-      if scattered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, the rest of the
-      maids came running,&mdash;Anita and Maria, the twins, women forty years
-      old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought home his
-      handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the Little, as
-      she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old Juanita, the
-      oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was said not to
-      know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could tell nothing,
-      having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing except to shell
-      beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was never happy except
-      she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one crop never omitted or
-      stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old Juanita they stored every
-      year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans in the pod (tons of them,
-      one would think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was like a little
-      army even now, the Senora's household; nobody ever knew exactly how many
-      women were in the kitchen, or how many men in the fields. There were
-      always women cousins, or brother's wives or widows or daughters, who had
-      come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's husbands or sons, who were
-      stopping on their way up or down the valley. When it came to the pay-roll,
-      Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages; but who were fed and lodged under
-      his roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter into the head
-      of a Mexican gentleman to make either count or account of that. It would
-      be a disgraceful niggardly thought.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the
-      place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the
-      work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled. In
-      the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never less
-      than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his gates
-      each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time had
-      indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush
-      and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly
-      the water at Juan's head, would have thought, &ldquo;Good heavens, do all those
-      women, children, and babies belong in that one house!&rdquo; the Senora's sole
-      thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, &ldquo;Poor things! how
-      few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has to work too hard. I
-      must spare Margarita more from the house to help her.&rdquo; And she sighed
-      deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to her heart, as she went
-      into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw there
-      was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it met her eye, she paused on
-      the threshold for a second,&mdash;only a second, however; and nothing
-      could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have been told that at
-      the very moment when his mother's calm voice was saying to him, &ldquo;Good
-      morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and are better,&rdquo; there was
-      welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, &ldquo;O my glorious son! The
-      saints have sent me in him the face of his father! He is fit for a
-      kingdom!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had
-      been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding
-      it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a king
-      born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a throne,
-      or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up, better
-      than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said, whether
-      the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the face of his
-      father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the
-      occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought
-      velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at the knee with
-      red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father had
-      worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her first look at
-      him,&mdash;fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and saw the
-      same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her in
-      distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mother, mother mia,&rdquo; cried Felipe, &ldquo;I will not wear them if it makes you
-      feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed
-      parade;&rdquo; and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to
-      unbuckle the sword-belt.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no, Felipe,&rdquo; faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. &ldquo;It is my
-      wish that you wear them;&rdquo; and staggering to her feet, with a burst of
-      tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many
-      times&mdash;never unkissed&mdash;buckled, in the days when her husband had
-      bade her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. &ldquo;Wear
-      them!&rdquo; she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry of
-      tears,&mdash;&ldquo;wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican
-      officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base, usurping
-      feet on our necks!&rdquo; And she followed him to the gate, and stood erect,
-      bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was out of
-      sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly to her
-      room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at the head
-      of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that she might
-      be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From which part
-      of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to imagine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father
-      Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not
-      in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of
-      Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still
-      more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on
-      between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep on
-      the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two together
-      and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, and not to
-      be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,&rdquo; said the
-      Senora. &ldquo;I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, Felipe,&mdash;that
-      it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As the only chance
-      those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem a Christian duty
-      to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very restive. He is
-      getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your control. He cannot
-      forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my part, am like to
-      forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to lean on.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile of
-      filial affection and gratified manly vanity. &ldquo;Indeed, my mother, if I can
-      be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the saints;&rdquo;
-       and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at once, in
-      his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a lover might
-      have done. &ldquo;You will spoil me, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you make me so proud.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Felipe, it is I who am proud,&rdquo; promptly replied the mother; &ldquo;and I do
-      not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me a son
-      wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me through
-      the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content, seeing you at
-      the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman should; that is,
-      so far as now remains possible in this unfortunate country. But about the
-      sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it begun before the Father is
-      here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready with his band. It is but two
-      days' journey for a messenger to bring him. Father Salvierderra cannot be
-      here before the 10th of the month. He leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and
-      he will walk all the way,&mdash;a good six days' journey, for he is old
-      now and feeble; then he must stop in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at
-      the Ortega's ranch, and at the Lopez's,&mdash;there, there is a
-      christening. Yes, the 10th is the very earliest that he can be here,&mdash;near
-      two weeks from now. So far as your getting up is concerned, it might
-      perhaps be next week. You will be nearly well by that time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, indeed,&rdquo; laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and
-      giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the
-      fringed canopy roof shake and creak; &ldquo;I am well now, if it were not for
-      this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me
-      good to get out of doors.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It was
-      a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it; and
-      two weeks looked long to wait.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is always thus after a fever,&rdquo; said his mother. &ldquo;The weakness lasts
-      many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two weeks
-      to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood at the
-      packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting for you
-      for that!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He said that, did he!&rdquo; exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. &ldquo;The old man is
-      getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but
-      myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when I
-      please, and not before.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till
-      the Father comes, would it?&rdquo; asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the
-      thing were evenly balanced in her mind. &ldquo;The Father has not that hold on
-      the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in Juan
-      himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is spreading
-      in the country since the Americans are running up and down everywhere
-      seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It might vex Juan
-      if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father. What do you think?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for my
-      pleasure,&rdquo; answered Felipe, still wrathful, &ldquo;and that is the end of it.&rdquo;
-       And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno had
-      had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito himself
-      suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As for Felipe,
-      if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother, and not he, who
-      had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better deferred until the
-      arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, and that nothing should
-      be said on the ranch about this being the real reason of the postponing,
-      Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and have thought that person
-      either crazy or a fool.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never
-      to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men, as
-      instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that one
-      gets from a hand or a foot,&mdash;this is to triumph, indeed: to be as
-      nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have been
-      men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who have
-      sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a great degree. By
-      it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sovereigns; and have
-      grasped, held, and played with the destinies of empires. But it is to be
-      questioned whether even in these notable instances there has ever been
-      such marvellous completeness of success as is sometimes seen in the case
-      of a woman in whom the power is an instinct and not an attainment; a
-      passion rather than a purpose. Between the two results, between the two
-      processes, there is just that difference which is always to be seen
-      between the stroke of talent and the stroke of genius.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      II
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found in
-      California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half elegant,
-      wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men and women of
-      degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of the Spanish
-      and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still the law of
-      the land, and its old name, &ldquo;New Spain,&rdquo; was an ever-present link and
-      stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its people.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more
-      also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen again
-      on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still; industries
-      and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its century,&mdash;in
-      fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left standing one
-      such house as the Senora Moreno's.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a
-      radius of forty miles,&mdash;forty miles westward, down the valley to the
-      sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good forty
-      miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very strictly
-      defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon land by
-      inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno owned all this
-      land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It was not and could
-      not be answered to the satisfaction of the United States Land Commission,
-      which, after the surrender of California, undertook to sift and adjust
-      Mexican land titles; and that was the way it had come about that the
-      Senora Moreno now called herself a poor woman. Tract after tract, her
-      lands had been taken away from her; it looked for a time as if nothing
-      would be left. Every one of the claims based on deeds of gift from
-      Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most intimate friend, was disallowed.
-      They all went by the board in one batch, and took away from the Senora in
-      a day the greater part of her best pasture-lands. They were lands which
-      had belonged to the Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the
-      mouth of the valley down which the little stream which ran past her house
-      went to the sea; and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora,
-      when she was young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all
-      the way on their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip
-      of shore. No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them
-      always as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least
-      realized that the taking possession of California was not only a
-      conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the
-      real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which gave
-      up the country, as to the country itself which was given up. Provinces
-      passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of great powers,
-      have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none of the
-      dignities or compensations of the transaction.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself
-      beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such a
-      transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country; probably
-      none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the valley
-      was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which had once
-      belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura; and after all
-      the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and adjudications were
-      ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of what would have been
-      thought by any new-comer into the country to be a handsome estate, but
-      which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora a pitiful fragment of
-      one. Moreover, she declared that she should never feel secure of a foot of
-      even this. Any day, she said, the United States Government might send out
-      a new Land Commission to examine the decrees of the first, and revoke such
-      as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a thief. Nobody need feel himself
-      safe under American rule. There was no knowing what might happen any day;
-      and year by year the lines of sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism
-      deepened on the Senora's fast aging face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out a
-      road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of past the
-      front. &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Let their travel be where it belongs,
-      behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the front doors of our
-      houses, except friends who have come to visit us.&rdquo; Her enjoyment of this
-      never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wagons or carriages
-      belonging to the hated Americans, it gave her a distinct thrill of
-      pleasure to think that the house turned its back on them. She would like
-      always to be able to do the same herself; but whatever she, by policy or
-      in business, might be forced to do, the old house, at any rate, would
-      always keep the attitude of contempt,&mdash;its face turned away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was
-      opened,&mdash;a pleasure in which religious devotion and race antagonism
-      were so closely blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of priests
-      to decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. She caused to be set up,
-      upon every one of the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful rolling
-      sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross; not a hill in
-      sight of her house left without the sacred emblem of her faith. &ldquo;That the
-      heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the estate of a good
-      Catholic,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and that the faithful may be reminded to pray. There
-      have been miracles of conversion wrought on the most hardened by a sudden
-      sight of the Blessed Cross.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn,
-      outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller who
-      had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left or the
-      right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses, which he
-      couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not often happen that
-      the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle heart journeying by, and
-      thus justified the pious half of the Senora's impulse? Certain it is, that
-      many a good Catholic halted and crossed himself when he first beheld them,
-      in the lonely places, standing out in sudden relief against the blue sky;
-      and if he said a swift short prayer at the sight, was he not so much the
-      better?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of
-      the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which
-      looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner court,
-      were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the family life
-      went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when it was
-      necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was done here,
-      in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, were washed, sat
-      in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said their prayers,
-      took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita shelled her beans
-      there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, till towards night they
-      were sometimes piled up high around her, like corn-husks at a husking. The
-      herdsmen and shepherds smoked there, lounged there, trained their dogs
-      there; there the young made love, and the old dozed; the benches, which
-      ran the entire length of the walls, were worn into hollows, and shone like
-      satin; the tiled floors also were broken and sunk in places, making little
-      wells, which filled up in times of hard rains, and were then an invaluable
-      addition to the children's resources for amusement, and also to the
-      comfort of the dogs, cats, and fowls, who picked about among them, taking
-      sips from each.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must have
-      been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms opened
-      on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four steps
-      higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the look of
-      a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great red
-      water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, stood in
-      close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing fine
-      geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's passion for
-      musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong that she
-      sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father Salvierderra
-      in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and giving them to
-      him, said, &ldquo;I do not know why it is, but it seems to me if I were dead I
-      could be brought to life by the smell of musk.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is in your blood, Senora,&rdquo; the old monk replied. &ldquo;When I was last in
-      your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room, and
-      under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so filled
-      the room with its odor that I was like to faint. But she said it cured her
-      of diseases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby then.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; cried the Senora, &ldquo;but I recollect that balcony. I recollect being
-      lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of blooming yellow
-      flowers; but I did not know what they were. How strange!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No. Not strange, daughter,&rdquo; replied Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;It would have
-      been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with
-      the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remember this far more than
-      they do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there were
-      many sorts of climbing vines,&mdash;some coming from the ground, and
-      twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls,
-      swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against the
-      walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished, shining
-      smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians, nobody knew
-      how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient creatures, with
-      only stones for tools.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the Senora's
-      canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different generations,
-      raised by the Senora. She was never without a young bird-family on hand;
-      and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it was thought a piece of
-      good luck to come into possession of a canary or finch of Senora Moreno's
-      'raising.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all was
-      garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always green,
-      never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never without
-      flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early spring, a
-      fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from the hills on
-      the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise clouds had
-      fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand stretched away
-      other orchards,&mdash;peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; and beyond
-      these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or bloom or fruit, at
-      whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south veranda.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with
-      grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led
-      straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden, to
-      a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade of a
-      dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone washboards
-      on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling, and no running
-      away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to the eye of the
-      Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had known how
-      picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting the dripping
-      linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the stones, sousing
-      it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each other's faces, they
-      would have been content to stay at the washing day in and day out, for
-      there was always somebody to look on from above. Hardly a day passed that
-      the Senora had not visitors. She was still a person of note; her house the
-      natural resting-place for all who journeyed through the valley; and
-      whoever came, spent all of his time, when not eating, sleeping, or walking
-      over the place, sitting with the Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in
-      winter were cold enough, and in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive
-      the Senora and her friends indoors. There stood on the veranda three
-      carved oaken chairs, and a carved bench, also of oak, which had been
-      brought to the Senora for safe keeping by the faithful old sacristan of
-      San Luis Rey, at the time of the occupation of that Mission by the United
-      States troops, soon after the conquest of California. Aghast at the
-      sacrilegious acts of the soldiers, who were quartered in the very church
-      itself, and amused themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of
-      the saints' statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after
-      night, bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some
-      articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little hovel,
-      until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more stealthily,
-      he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of a cart, under
-      a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who felt herself
-      deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything as a sacred
-      trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again, whenever the
-      Missions should be restored, of which at that time all Catholics had good
-      hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the Senora's house was
-      without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the Madonna; and some had
-      two; and in the little chapel in the garden the altar was surrounded by a
-      really imposing row of holy and apostolic figures, which had looked down
-      on the splendid ceremonies of the San Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's
-      time, no more benignly than they now did on the humbler worship of the
-      Senora's family in its diminished estate. That one had lost an eye,
-      another an arm, that the once brilliant colors of the drapery were now
-      faded and shabby, only enhanced the tender reverence with which the Senora
-      knelt before them, her eyes filling with indignant tears at thought of the
-      heretic hands which had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling
-      wreaths which had been placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of
-      the last ceremonial at which they had figured in the Mission, had been
-      brought away with them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had
-      replaced each one, holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue
-      itself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built by
-      the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four
-      children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome
-      Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's
-      time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living
-      within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be witnessed
-      there was like the scenes at the Missions,&mdash;the chapel full of
-      kneeling men and women; those who could not find room inside kneeling on
-      the garden walks outside; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous vestments,
-      coming, at close of the services, slowly down the aisle, the close-packed
-      rows of worshippers parting to right and left to let him through, all
-      looking up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him offerings of fruit
-      or flowers, and holding up their babies that he might lay his hands on
-      their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever officiated in the
-      Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He was a Franciscan,
-      one of the few now left in the country; so revered and beloved by all who
-      had come under his influence, that they would wait long months without the
-      offices of the Church, rather than confess their sins or confide their
-      perplexities to any one else. From this deep-seated attachment on the part
-      of the Indians and the older Mexican families in the country to the
-      Franciscan Order, there had grown up, not unnaturally, some jealousy of
-      them in the minds of the later-come secular priests, and the position of
-      the few monks left was not wholly a pleasant one. It had even been rumored
-      that they were to be forbidden to continue longer their practice of going
-      up and down the country, ministering everywhere; were to be compelled to
-      restrict their labors to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa
-      Inez. When something to this effect was one day said in the Senora
-      Moreno's presence, two scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she
-      bethought herself, she exclaimed, &ldquo;That day, I burn down my chapel!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of
-      unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I spoke rashly, my son,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The Church is to be obeyed always;
-      but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but the Superior of
-      their own order; and there is no one in this land who has the authority to
-      forbid their journeying and ministering to whoever desires their offices.
-      As for these Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot abide them.
-      No Catalan but has bad blood in his veins!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly
-      attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the gray
-      gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented the
-      things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father
-      Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship
-      which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara
-      Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was at
-      that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment and
-      romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the gayeties,
-      excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the ceremonies
-      and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as the most
-      beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the navy, and men
-      of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast from Monterey to San
-      Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe Moreno, one of the
-      most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her wedding ceremonies were
-      the most splendid ever seen in the country. The right tower of the Mission
-      church at Santa Barbara had been just completed, and it was arranged that
-      the consecration of this tower should take place at the time of her
-      wedding, and that her wedding feast should be spread in the long outside
-      corridor of the Mission building. The whole country, far and near, was
-      bid. The feast lasted three days; open tables to everybody; singing,
-      dancing, eating, drinking, and making merry. At that time there were long
-      streets of Indian houses stretching eastward from the Mission; before each
-      of these houses was built a booth of green boughs. The Indians, as well as
-      the Fathers from all the other Missions, were invited to come. The Indians
-      came in bands, singing songs and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the
-      Santa Barbara Indians went out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts,
-      and strewing seeds on the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora
-      and her bridegroom, splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted,
-      whenever they appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On
-      the third day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles
-      in their hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and
-      round the new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy
-      water on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a
-      blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the
-      newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied by
-      several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan Fathers,
-      up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and being
-      warmly welcomed and entertained at each.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the
-      frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers he,
-      being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and
-      enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material
-      assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having
-      heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission
-      churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers either
-      in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the daughter of a
-      distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara Superior, he had
-      linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and interests of the
-      country.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned out
-      to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the
-      Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer, took
-      the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force
-      compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high up
-      by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across the
-      corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously
-      undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, let them do it, if they like,&rdquo; he cried, laughingly, to Padre
-      Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back.
-      &ldquo;Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all
-      his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to be
-      driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry belonging
-      to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For music, there was
-      the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing, quacking of the
-      fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and whip-cracking of the
-      excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came the turkeys, then the
-      roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and then the yellow, next
-      the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle long files of geese, some
-      strutting, some half flying and hissing in resentment and terror at the
-      unwonted coercions to which they were subjected. The Indians had been hard
-      at work all night capturing, sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and
-      file of their novel pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight
-      never was seen, and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other.
-      Before it was done with, the General and his bride had nearly died with
-      laughter; and the General could never allude to it without laughing almost
-      as heartily again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the
-      Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor,
-      balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of
-      festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The
-      belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for
-      these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to her.
-      This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. She was
-      then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then, underneath
-      the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look thoughtful,
-      tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the reflection of
-      those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made her, as years
-      developed her character and stormy fates thickened around her life, the
-      unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate adherent of the
-      Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions, downfalls, Spanish,
-      Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint, her poise, remained the
-      same. She simply grew more and more proudly, passionately, a Spaniard and
-      a Moreno; more and more stanchly and fierily a Catholic, and a lover of
-      the Franciscans.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions, under
-      the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside herself.
-      More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by no means
-      without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of the Missions to
-      more energetic action, to implore the governmental authorities to
-      interfere, and protect the Church's property. It was largely in
-      consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor Micheltorena issued
-      his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the Missions south of San
-      Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his political head, and
-      General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the skirmishes of the
-      insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the country.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back to
-      health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her unhappy
-      country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she saw the ruin of
-      the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties melting away, like
-      dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest administrators and
-      politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the unprincipled greed
-      in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven from the country or
-      dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted herself to what, she was
-      forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable will of God for the
-      discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort of bewildered
-      resignation she waited to see what further sufferings were to come, to
-      fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some mysterious purpose,
-      the faithful must endure. But when close upon all this discomfiture and
-      humiliation of her Church followed the discomfiture and humiliation of her
-      country in war, and the near and evident danger of an English-speaking
-      people's possessing the land, all the smothered fire of the Senora's
-      nature broke out afresh. With unfaltering hands she buckled on her
-      husband's sword, and with dry eyes saw him go forth to fight. She had but
-      one regret, that she was not the mother of sons to fight also.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Would thou wert a man, Felipe,&rdquo; she exclaimed again and again in tones
-      the child never forgot. &ldquo;Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also to
-      fight these foreigners!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than the
-      American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came trading to
-      post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being forced to wage
-      a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be believed. In the outset
-      she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in the contest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten by
-      these traders? It is impossible!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight
-      the Mexican forces made, she said icily, &ldquo;He would have chosen to die
-      rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of the
-      enemy.&rdquo; And she was almost frightened at herself to see how this thought,
-      as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had believed she
-      could not live if her husband were to be taken away from her; but she
-      found herself often glad that he was dead,&mdash;glad that he was spared
-      the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened; and even the
-      yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured him among the
-      saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether indignation did
-      not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things were going in the
-      land for whose sake he had died.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made
-      Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew, who
-      knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental girl,
-      who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed with
-      the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now, in the
-      low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who
-      manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it about
-      that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sins to a
-      Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      III
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's
-      family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona.
-      Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the
-      Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present. For
-      one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of the
-      Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed
-      with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the shepherds,
-      the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry, all loved the
-      sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The Senora loved her
-      not; never had loved her, never could love her; and yet she had stood in
-      the place of mother to the girl ever since her childhood, and never once
-      during the whole sixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in
-      act. She had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienable
-      stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise. More
-      than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora's fault.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's
-      acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know&mdash;and no
-      one ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno&mdash;who Ramona's
-      parents were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name
-      not being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended
-      and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and
-      women here and there in the country could have told the strange story of
-      Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much had
-      happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she was
-      in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of the
-      generation just going out were not the business of the young people coming
-      in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what was the
-      use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to be
-      forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer
-      evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all
-      young men and maidens thrilled who heard it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was an elder sister of the Senora's,&mdash;a sister old enough to be
-      wooed and won while the Senora was yet at play,&mdash;who had been
-      promised in marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a
-      beautiful woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her
-      standing in the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like
-      a man bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for
-      Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest
-      accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus
-      she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only after
-      his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise to
-      become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, and
-      Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line of ships
-      which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, carvings,
-      woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came in his ships.
-      The arrival of one of them was always an event; and Angus himself, having
-      been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully well-mannered for a
-      seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best houses, wherever his ships
-      went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour her
-      lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to each
-      other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north. It was
-      remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the Senorita, that
-      she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face away, long before
-      her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the &ldquo;San Jose&rdquo; said that
-      Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from
-      his sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey ship had long before
-      disappeared from view.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor was
-      pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he would
-      bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her, treasures
-      of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through the long
-      weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the waves, and
-      letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins, velvets,
-      laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When he could not
-      longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would pace the deck,
-      swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those of one flying in fear;
-      at such times the men heard him muttering and whispering to himself,
-      &ldquo;Ramona! Ramona!&rdquo; Mad with love from the first to the last was Angus
-      Phail; and there were many who believed that if he had ever seen the hour
-      when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reason would have fled forever
-      at that moment, and he would have killed either her or himself, as men
-      thus mad have been known to do. But that hour never came. When, eight
-      months later, the &ldquo;San Jose&rdquo; sailed into the Santa Barbara harbor, and
-      Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, the second man he met, no friend
-      of his, looking him maliciously in the face, said. &ldquo;So, ho! You're just
-      too late for the wedding! Your sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was
-      married here, yesterday, to a fine young officer of the Monterey
-      Presidio!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the
-      ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house, and,
-      speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the hands of
-      those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran bareheaded up
-      the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped by the guard, who
-      knew him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is it true?&rdquo; gasped Angus.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook
-      under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he
-      would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into a
-      maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street, singing
-      and laughing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was
-      seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and
-      lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was
-      Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;See what the Senorita escaped!&rdquo; said the thoughtless. &ldquo;She was quite
-      right not to have married such a drunken wretch.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he
-      possessed,&mdash;ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds
-      squandered in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride.
-      He did not seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it,
-      and soon returned with her husband to Monterey.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los
-      Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission, and
-      was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more
-      surprising news that he had married a squaw,&mdash;a squaw with several
-      Indian children,&mdash;had been legally married by the priest in the San
-      Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless Ramona
-      Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after her
-      marriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How he had
-      gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stood before
-      her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing himself up to
-      the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her sternly, with
-      eyes blue like steel, he said: &ldquo;Senora Ortegna, you once did me a great
-      wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has denied you
-      children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and the Lord has
-      punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at your hands a
-      boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as a child of
-      yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord had
-      indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her childlessness,
-      bitter as that had been, was the least of them. Speechless, she rose, and
-      stretched out her arms for the child. He placed it in them. Still the
-      child slept on, undisturbed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not know if I will be permitted,&rdquo; she said falteringly; &ldquo;my husband&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him,&rdquo; replied Angus.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora's face brightened. &ldquo;If that be so, I hope it can be as you
-      wish,&rdquo; she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking
-      down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, &ldquo;But the child's mother?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle
-      and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the full
-      how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of his hand,
-      which spoke volumes, he said: &ldquo;That is nothing. She has other children, of
-      her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. I wish her to be
-      yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in her
-      arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the infant.
-      At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. &ldquo;Oh, no! not
-      to the Church! I will love it as my own,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in
-      their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful, so
-      dear. &ldquo;I should hardly have known you, Senora!&rdquo; burst from him
-      involuntarily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She smiled piteously, with no resentment. &ldquo;That is not strange. I hardly
-      know myself,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Life has dealt very hardly with me. I should
-      not have known you either&mdash;Angus.&rdquo; She pronounced his name
-      hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables, so
-      long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in his hands,
-      and sobbed out: &ldquo;O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here, not
-      wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you sure you
-      wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never, so long as I live, Angus,&rdquo; replied Senora Ortegna. &ldquo;Already I feel
-      that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in her
-      presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. &ldquo;Before I had thought
-      of bringing her to you,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;at first I had only the thought of
-      giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by&rdquo;&mdash;the words
-      refused to leave his lips&mdash;&ldquo;the name&mdash;Can you not guess, Senora,
-      what name she bears?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora knew. &ldquo;My own?&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Angus bowed his head. &ldquo;The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke with
-      love,&rdquo; he said, reassured, &ldquo;was the name my daughter should bear.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between them.
-      Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a
-      simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms
-      with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the
-      hands which lovingly held his sleeping child.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,&rdquo; he cried,
-      and was gone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to
-      say in a low tone, &ldquo;There is no need to be alarmed if the child does not
-      wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her. It
-      will not harm her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two lovers,
-      so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again, forever.
-      The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been bridged in
-      both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart of the man it was
-      the old passionate adoring love reawakening; a resurrection of the buried
-      dead, to full life, with lineaments unchanged. In the woman it was not
-      that; there was no buried love to come to such resurrection in her heart,
-      for she had never loved Angus Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated,
-      heartbroken, she woke at that moment to the realization of what manner of
-      love it had been which she had thrown away in her youth; her whole being
-      yearned for it now, and Angus was avenged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into his wife's
-      room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his eyes,&mdash;his
-      wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay, smiling in its
-      sleep, a beautiful infant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What in the devil's name,&rdquo; he began; then recollecting, he muttered: &ldquo;Oh,
-      the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your first
-      child!&rdquo; and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by, giving the
-      cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since
-      passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But it
-      was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from that
-      day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments where
-      there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight of her
-      baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed
-      from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's character
-      was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful dissipations
-      of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country. But from the
-      wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of complaint. She
-      was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But now she saw a
-      reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was plain to her that
-      she had not many years to live; and what then would become of the child?
-      Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only too certain what would
-      become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the lonely woman passed, with
-      the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly endeavoring to forecast her
-      future. The near chance of her own death had not occurred to her mind when
-      she accepted the trust.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian
-      messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He brought
-      her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day before his
-      death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a quarter of a
-      century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought for his bride.
-      These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the lowest depths of his
-      degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him from parting with
-      them. The letter contained only these words: &ldquo;I send you all I have to
-      leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself this year. I wished to
-      kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying. Farewell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not till
-      she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had put the
-      box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a solemn
-      promise that at her own death she would adopt the little Ramona. This
-      promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father Salvierderra's
-      influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any dealings with such
-      alien and mongrel blood, &ldquo;If the child were pure Indian, I would like it
-      better,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I like not these crosses. It is the worst, and not the
-      best of each, that remains.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew that
-      her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's future
-      was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life the child
-      was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly and defiantly
-      infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations in his wife's
-      presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her helpless
-      invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga blood to
-      endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke to her
-      husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to see her
-      die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and damasks,
-      she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling into the
-      hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would stand in her
-      place as soon as the funeral services had been said over her dead body.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno
-      conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to
-      be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas
-      lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never
-      ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their
-      lonely wretchedness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell to
-      her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little four-year-old
-      Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next morning set sail
-      for home.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all kinds
-      were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off,
-      post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding their
-      return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of instructions
-      to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in trust for Ramona;
-      also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading which he sank into a
-      fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and gave his infamous
-      associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost their comrade. But he
-      soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and settled back into his
-      old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. Father Salvierderra could
-      alarm him, but not save him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never told
-      the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It was a
-      sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them nothing
-      but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in her
-      own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was ever
-      infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a little
-      child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, &ldquo;Senora, why did my
-      mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: &ldquo;Your mother had nothing
-      whatever to do with it. It was your father.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was my mother dead?&rdquo; continued the child.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Too late the Senora saw her mistake. &ldquo;I do not know,&rdquo; she replied; which
-      was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. &ldquo;I never saw your
-      mother.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?&rdquo; persisted Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, never,&rdquo; answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the
-      innocent child's unconscious touch.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her
-      eyes tearful. At last she said, &ldquo;I wish I knew if my mother was dead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; asked the Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to
-      stay with her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience. Taking
-      the child in her arms, she said, &ldquo;Who has been talking to you of these
-      things, Ramona?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Juan Can,&rdquo; she replied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What did he say?&rdquo; asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded no
-      good to Juan Canito.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,&rdquo; answered
-      Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various reminiscences on the
-      subject. &ldquo;Twice I heard him. He said that my mother was no good, and that
-      my father was bad too.&rdquo; And the tears rolled down the child's cheeks.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness, now.
-      Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said, with
-      an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, &ldquo;Ramona must not
-      believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it. He never
-      saw either your father or your mother, and so he could know nothing about
-      them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man. He was my
-      friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was the reason he
-      gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of her own. And I
-      think your mother had a good many.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the
-      situation,&mdash;that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to
-      the Senora Ortegna. &ldquo;Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very
-      much?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, very much indeed,&rdquo; said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. &ldquo;She
-      had grieved many years because she had no child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart,
-      grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts
-      into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the
-      Senora by saying in a half-whisper, &ldquo;Why did not my father bring me to you
-      first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said: &ldquo;Your
-      father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I was only a
-      child, then.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,&rdquo; continued
-      Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without
-      noticing the Senora's reply. &ldquo;A son is more than a daughter; but most
-      people have both,&rdquo; eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this
-      would bring.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very
-      mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability to love
-      Ramona had swept through her mind. &ldquo;Ramona,&rdquo; she said firmly, &ldquo;while you
-      are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things. When you are
-      a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about your father and your
-      mother. It is very little. Your father died when you were only two years
-      old. All that you have to do is to be a good child, and say your prayers,
-      and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be pleased with you. And he
-      will not be pleased if you ask troublesome questions. Don't ever speak to
-      me again about this. When the proper time comes I will tell you myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again
-      asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had been
-      a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been always
-      pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her year by
-      year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to tell her
-      anything more about her father and mother. There were few mornings on
-      which the girl did not think, &ldquo;Perhaps it may be to-day that she will tell
-      me.&rdquo; But she would not ask. Every word of that conversation was as vivid
-      in her mind as it had been the day it occurred; and it would hardly be an
-      exaggeration to say that during every day of the whole nine years had
-      deepened in her heart the conviction which had prompted the child's
-      question, &ldquo;Did he know that you did not want any daughter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at least
-      hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never put it in
-      words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem sometimes
-      to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity, with an
-      unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as
-      resignation is above rebellious repining.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual conduct,
-      that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face was sunny,
-      she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human being without a
-      cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her industry was
-      tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent of the Sacred
-      Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her at much personal
-      sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno estate had ever
-      seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters, who spoke of her
-      habitually as the &ldquo;blessed child.&rdquo; They had taught her all the dainty arts
-      of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions of painting and drawing,
-      which they knew; not overmuch learning out of books, but enough to make
-      her a passionate lover of verse and romance. For serious study or for deep
-      thought she had no vocation. She was a simple, joyous, gentle, clinging,
-      faithful nature, like a clear brook rippling along in the sun,&mdash;a
-      nature as unlike as possible to the Senora's, with its mysterious depths
-      and stormy, hidden currents.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender, sorrowful
-      pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only express by
-      renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty possible in
-      the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on Senora Moreno,
-      though its source she never suspected; and it won no new recognition from
-      her for Ramona, no increase of love.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all this
-      graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and more he
-      wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody knew so well
-      as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew what it meant,
-      how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe had learned
-      while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother was to appear
-      to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated him. And long
-      before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of keeping to himself
-      most of the things he thought and felt about his little playmate sister,&mdash;a
-      dangerous habit, out of which were slowly ripening bitter fruits for the
-      Senora's gathering in later years.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      IV
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before Father
-      Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the year that
-      she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey that he could
-      make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his body that had
-      failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have been nothing to
-      him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and happy thoughts,
-      stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories and still sadder
-      anticipations,&mdash;the downfall of the Missions, the loss of their vast
-      estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. The final
-      decision of the United States Government in regard to the Mission-lands
-      had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed that ultimate
-      restoration of these great estates to the Church was inevitable. In the
-      long vigils which he always kept when at home at the Franciscan Monastery
-      in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement in the church, and
-      praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had often had visions
-      vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the Mission establishments
-      should be reinstated in all their old splendor and prosperity, and their
-      Indian converts again numbered by tens of thousands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate these
-      visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they must
-      come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year he
-      journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission, the
-      buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold, and
-      settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing, driven
-      back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble work of
-      his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his faith died
-      out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, also, were
-      giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as Francis of
-      Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in a purse for
-      a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for any sort of
-      secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable clothes while
-      there were others suffering for want of them&mdash;and there were always
-      such&mdash;seemed to him a sin for which one might not undeservedly be
-      smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the Brothers again
-      and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away to the first
-      beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have been left bare,
-      and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had not been carefully
-      hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could not give them all
-      away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often sublime sight, a man
-      who has survived, not only his own time, but the ideas and ideals of it.
-      Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the bitterness of exile, the anguish of
-      friendlessness at their utmost, are in it; and yet it is so much greater
-      than they, that even they seem small part of it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near the
-      home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those midsummer
-      days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The almonds had
-      bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the peaches and
-      pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy tint of green,
-      so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray. The willows were
-      vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and glossy like laurel. The
-      billowy hills on either side the valley were covered with verdure and
-      bloom,&mdash;myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the earth that
-      their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, and on the green of the
-      grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each other and blend into a
-      changeful color.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern
-      California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they
-      are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in the
-      sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture.
-      Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself
-      permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed them
-      with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,&mdash;all members
-      of the sacred choir praising God.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh
-      drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old man
-      resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down. The fairer
-      this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the Church,&mdash;alien
-      hands reaping its fulness, establishing new customs, new laws. All the way
-      down the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen, at every stopping-place,
-      new tokens of the settling up of the country,&mdash;farms opening, towns
-      growing; the Americans pouring in, at all points, to reap the advantages
-      of their new possessions. It was this which had made his journey
-      heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in approaching the Senora Moreno's, as
-      if he were coming to one of the last sure strongholds of the Catholic
-      faith left in the country.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the highway
-      into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut through the
-      hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was more than a year
-      since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing fainter and
-      fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard, he said to
-      himself, &ldquo;I think no one can have passed through here this year.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild mustard
-      in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament, in the
-      branches of which the birds of the air may rest. Coming up out of the
-      earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find starting-point in an inch,
-      it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, ten, twenty feet, with
-      hundreds of fine feathery branches locking and interlocking with all the
-      other hundreds around it, till it is an inextricable network like lace.
-      Then it bursts into yellow bloom still finer, more feathery and lacelike.
-      The stems are so infinitesimally small, and of so dark a green, that at a
-      short distance they do not show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating
-      in the air; at times it looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky
-      behind it, as it is often seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The
-      plant is a tyrant and a nuisance,&mdash;the terror of the farmer; it takes
-      riotous possession of a whole field in a season; once in, never out; for
-      one plant this year, a million the next; but it is impossible to wish that
-      the land were freed from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as
-      the nugget gold is in the pocket.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these
-      delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could
-      make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one would
-      disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma, and not
-      unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his journey's
-      end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through the golden meshes.
-      Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He paused,&mdash;listened. It
-      was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing nearer, apparently from
-      the direction in which he was going. At intervals it ceased abruptly, then
-      began again; as if by a sudden but brief interruption, like that made by
-      question and answer. Then, peering ahead through the mustard blossoms, he
-      saw them waving and bending, and heard sounds as if they were being
-      broken. Evidently some one entering on the path from the opposite end had
-      been caught in the fragrant thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer,
-      though still low and sweet as the twilight notes of the thrush; the
-      mustard branches waved more and more violently; light steps were now to be
-      heard. Father Salvierderra stood still as one in a dream, his eyes
-      straining forward into the golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came,
-      distinct and clear to his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of
-      Saint Francis's inimitable lyric, &ldquo;The Canticle of the Sun:&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for our
-      brother the Sun,&mdash;who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and
-      splendor shadows forth unto us thine.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ramona!&rdquo; exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure.
-      &ldquo;The blessed child!&rdquo; And as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in a
-      swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to right and
-      left with her hands, and half crept, half danced through the loop-hole
-      openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood was
-      not too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture. A man must be
-      dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best
-      enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. She had just enough
-      of olive tint in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin without
-      making it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy and black,
-      but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those who came very
-      near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were blue, for the heavy black
-      eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shadowed them that they
-      looked black as night. At the same instant that Father Salvierderra first
-      caught sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and crying out joyfully,
-      &ldquo;Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path, and something told me you
-      were near!&rdquo; she sprang forward, and sank on her knees before him, bowing
-      her head for his blessing. In silence he laid his hands on her brow. It
-      would not have been easy for him to speak to her at that first moment. She
-      had looked to the devout old monk, as she sprang through the cloud of
-      golden flowers, the sun falling on her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her
-      eyes shining, more like an apparition of an angel or saint, than like the
-      flesh-and-blood maiden whom he had carried in his arms when she was a
-      babe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!&rdquo; she said,
-      rising. &ldquo;We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers have been
-      sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the reason I felt so sure
-      you would come. I knew the Virgin would bring you in time for mass in the
-      chapel on the first morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The monk smiled half sadly. &ldquo;Would there were more with such faith as
-      yours, daughter,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Are all well on the place?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Father, all well,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Felipe has been ill with a fever;
-      but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for&mdash;for your
-      coming.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,&mdash;&ldquo;fretting for the
-      sheep-shearing,&rdquo; but recollected herself in time.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And the Senora?&rdquo; said the Father.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She is well,&rdquo; answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of tone,&mdash;so
-      slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute observer would have
-      always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she spoke of the Senora
-      Moreno. &ldquo;And you,&mdash;are you well yourself, Father?&rdquo; she asked
-      affectionately, noting with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old man
-      walked, and that he carried what she had never before seen in his hand,&mdash;a
-      stout staff to steady his steps. &ldquo;You must be very tired with the long
-      journey on foot.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, Ramona, I am tired,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Old age is conquering me. It will
-      not be many times more that I shall see this place.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, do not say that, Father,&rdquo; cried Ramona; &ldquo;you can ride, when it tires
-      you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, that she wished
-      you would let her give you a horse; that it was not right for you to take
-      these long journeys on foot. You know we have hundreds of horses. It is
-      nothing, one horse,&rdquo; she added, seeing the Father slowly shake his head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No;&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the hands
-      of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. We must
-      deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, Father Junipero,
-      when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego to Monterey, and all the
-      while a running ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men would have
-      taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sinful fashion that is coming in,
-      for monks to take their ease doing God's work. I can no longer walk
-      swiftly, but I must walk all the more diligently.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona
-      slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and holding
-      them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they came out from
-      the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, &ldquo;There is Felipe, in the willows. I
-      told him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me. Now he will see I
-      was right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and
-      the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been
-      cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees,
-      as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind
-      blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in
-      gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate
-      welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times
-      since she became a woman, &ldquo;How beautiful Felipe is! No wonder the Senora
-      loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like that she would have liked
-      me better.&rdquo; Never was a little child more unconscious of her own beauty
-      than Ramona still was. All the admiration which was expressed to her in
-      word and look she took for simple kindness and good-will. Her face, as she
-      herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She compared her
-      straight, massive black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and delicately
-      pencilled, and found her own ugly. The expression of gentle repose which
-      her countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of stupidity. &ldquo;Felipe
-      looks so bright!&rdquo; she thought, as she noted his mobile changing face,
-      never for two successive seconds the same. &ldquo;There is nobody like Felipe.&rdquo;
-       And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as they so often were, in a
-      long lingering gaze, she looked steadily back into their velvet depths
-      with an abstracted sort of intensity which profoundly puzzled Felipe. It
-      was this look, more than any other one thing, which had for two years held
-      Felipe's tongue in leash, as it were, and made it impossible for him to
-      say to Ramona any of the loving things of which his heart had been full
-      ever since he could remember. The boy had spoken them unhesitatingly,
-      unconsciously; but the man found himself suddenly afraid. &ldquo;What is it she
-      thinks when she looks into my eyes so?&rdquo; he wondered. If he had known that
-      the thing she was usually thinking was simply, &ldquo;How much handsomer brown
-      eyes are than blue! I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!&rdquo; he would
-      have perceived, perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known
-      it, that a girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at
-      him as a lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only
-      enough to perplex and deter him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate of
-      the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking down at
-      it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an eager leap
-      forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals of distress to
-      her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty. Margarita was, of
-      all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they were nearly of the same
-      age, it had been Margarita who first had charge of Ramona; the nurse and
-      her charge had played together, grown up together, become women together,
-      and were now, although Margarita never presumed on the relation, or forgot
-      to address Ramona as Senorita, more like friends than like mistress and
-      maid.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Pardon me, Father,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;I see that Margarita there is in
-      trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be with
-      you again in a few moments.&rdquo; And kissing his hand, she flew rather than
-      ran across the field to the foot of the garden.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and
-      buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay at
-      her feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?&rdquo; cried Ramona, in the
-      affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand
-      from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled
-      linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry of
-      dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and she gasped
-      out, &ldquo;Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never be mended, and it
-      will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. When I saw the Father
-      coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die. The Senora will
-      never forgive me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth which
-      the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front of
-      beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the threads
-      and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the cloth which had
-      always been on the altar, when mass was said, since Margarita's and
-      Ramona's earliest recollections,&mdash;there it lay, torn, stained, as if
-      it had been dragged through muddy brambles. In silence, aghast, Ramona
-      opened it out and held it up. &ldquo;How did it happen, Margarita?&rdquo; she
-      whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!&rdquo; sobbed the girl. &ldquo;That is the
-      worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it had
-      happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but she never
-      will. I would rather die than tell her;&rdquo; and she shook from head to foot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Stop crying, Margarita!&rdquo; said Ramona, firmly, &ldquo;and tell me all about it.
-      It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, the saints bless you!&rdquo; cried Margarita, looking up for the first
-      time. &ldquo;Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will mend
-      that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona laughed in spite of herself. &ldquo;You'll serve me better by keeping on
-      your feet,&rdquo; she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through her
-      tears. They were both young.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, but Senorita,&rdquo; Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her tears
-      flowing afresh, &ldquo;there is not time! It must be washed and ironed to-night,
-      for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help at the supper. Anita
-      and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, and Maria has gone away for a
-      week. The Senora said if the Father came to-night I must help mother, and
-      must wait on table. It cannot be done. I was just going to iron it now,
-      and I found it&mdash;so&mdash;It was in the artichoke-patch, and Capitan,
-      the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp pricks of the old last
-      year's seeds.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In the artichoke-patch!&rdquo; ejaculated Ramona. &ldquo;How under heavens did it get
-      there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would forgive
-      me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to dry on the fence
-      there; and if I had only washed it when she first told me, two days ago,
-      all would have been well. But I forgot it till this afternoon, and there
-      was no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how the sun lies on the
-      artichoke-patch, and I put a strong cloth over the fence, so that the wood
-      should not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more than half an hour,
-      just while I said a few words to Luigo, and there was no wind; and I
-      believe the saints must have fetched it down to the ground to punish me
-      for my disobedience.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places, &ldquo;It
-      is not so bad as it looks,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;if it were not for the hurry, there
-      would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the best I can, so
-      that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after the Father is gone,
-      I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as good as new. I think I can
-      mend it and wash it before dark,&rdquo; and she glanced at the sun. &ldquo;Oh, yes,
-      there are good three hours of daylight yet. I can do it. You put the irons
-      on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon as it is partly dried.
-      You will see it will not show that anything has happened to it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Will the Senora know?&rdquo; asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but
-      still in mortal terror.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. &ldquo;You would not
-      be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?&rdquo; she said gravely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?&rdquo; pleaded the
-      girl.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended,&rdquo; said Ramona;
-      but she did not smile.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, Senorita,&rdquo; said Margarita, deprecatingly, &ldquo;you do not know what it is
-      to have the Senora displeased with one.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self,&rdquo; retorted
-      Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the linen rolled up
-      under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no one on the way.
-      The Senora had welcomed Father Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda
-      steps, and had immediately closeted herself with him. She had much to say
-      to him,&mdash;much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much
-      which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in the
-      country generally.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything were
-      ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the shearers
-      arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming in by
-      sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed his
-      messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians the
-      urgent need of their losing no time on the road.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the messenger
-      to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the Father's
-      movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even she
-      perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much longer,
-      or, as Juan Canito said, &ldquo;forever.&rdquo; The Father might have fallen ill; and
-      if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they heard of it, so
-      scanty were the means of communication between the remote places on his
-      route of visitation. The messenger had therefore been sent to summon the
-      Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned herself to the inevitable;
-      piously praying, however, morning and night, and at odd moments in the
-      day, that the Father might arrive before the Indians did. When she saw him
-      coming up the garden-walk, leaning on the arm of her Felipe, on the
-      afternoon of the very day which was the earliest possible day for the
-      Indians to arrive, it was not strange that she felt, mingled with the joy
-      of her greeting to her long-loved friend and confessor, a triumphant
-      exultation that the saints had heard her prayers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the
-      house was a signal for unwonted activities there,&mdash;even the coming of
-      Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup had force-meat balls
-      in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to her the last extreme of
-      indifference to good things of the flesh. &ldquo;But if he will not eat, he can
-      see,&rdquo; she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was enlisted
-      in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder afforded, She
-      grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the cabbages to go
-      into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full of rice, because
-      Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always two
-      onions?&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;It is the dish he most favors of all; and it is a
-      pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good beef he should
-      take now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the
-      kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going
-      back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each
-      child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of the
-      meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a
-      glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers
-      and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita,
-      between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping in
-      the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her army of
-      infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught, however, but
-      that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted candle in the
-      kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis of Paula in her
-      bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace might be made whole
-      like new. Several times before the afternoon had waned she snatched a
-      moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet and pray her foolish
-      little prayer over again. We think we are quite sure that it is a foolish
-      little prayer, when people pray to have torn lace made whole. But it would
-      be hard to show the odds between asking that, and asking that it may rain,
-      or that the sick may get well. As the grand old Russian says, what men
-      usually ask for, when they pray to God, is, that two and two may not make
-      four. All the same he is to be pitied who prays not. It was only the
-      thought of that candle at Saint Francis's feet, which enabled Margarita to
-      struggle through this anxious and unhappy afternoon and evening.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At last supper was ready,&mdash;a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in
-      the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls and
-      red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the boiled
-      rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans) so dear to
-      all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed pears, or
-      preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of various
-      sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an aroma of tea
-      such as had never been bought or sold in all California, the Senora's one
-      extravagance and passion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where is Ramona?&rdquo; asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she
-      entered the dining-room, &ldquo;Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are
-      waiting for her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What
-      would happen now! &ldquo;O Saint Francis,&rdquo; she inwardly prayed, &ldquo;help us this
-      once!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Do not call Senorita Ramona.&rdquo; Then, turning to his
-      mother, &ldquo;Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to
-      perform for to-morrow,&rdquo; he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother,
-      adding, &ldquo;we will not wait for her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a
-      mechanical way, and began, &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo; Felipe, seeing that questions were
-      to follow, interrupted her: &ldquo;I have just spoken with her. It is impossible
-      for her to come;&rdquo; and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged
-      him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied
-      curiosity as best she could.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude, which
-      he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood; for Ramona
-      had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing him under her
-      window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: &ldquo;Dear Felipe, do you
-      think you can save me from having to come to supper? A dreadful accident
-      has happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it and wash it, and there
-      is barely time before dark. Don't let them call me; I shall be down at the
-      brook, and they will not find me, and your mother will be displeased.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far
-      as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious
-      than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was
-      skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came
-      streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona,
-      darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the grass,
-      had dipped the linen into the water.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks
-      scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair
-      fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in
-      her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see
-      the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get
-      them out without fraying the lace.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her
-      whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over the
-      stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously
-      scanning it, then plunging it in again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was
-      aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty. A
-      sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black against
-      the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the band of
-      Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the sheep sheds
-      and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not see. He had been
-      standing for some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree a few rods
-      from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was Alessandro, son of Pablo
-      Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking slowly along in advance of
-      his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror held in the sun, smite his
-      eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the glittering water where Ramona knelt.
-      In the same second he saw Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed; walked
-      abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his disappearance.
-      Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter of a gnarled old
-      willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on the beautiful
-      vision,&mdash;for so it seemed to him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke
-      aloud; &ldquo;Christ! What shall I do!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      V
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora
-      Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the south
-      and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky, this
-      eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on watch for
-      it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray reached the
-      window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing there with
-      bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in all devout
-      Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly abandoned. At
-      the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family arose, and began
-      singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the duty of each
-      person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up in bed, and join
-      in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would be singing, and
-      the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like the music of the birds
-      in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually invocations to the Virgin,
-      or to the saint of the day, and the melodies were sweet and simple.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father
-      Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about
-      since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by
-      the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He
-      recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were at
-      the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the
-      Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could
-      see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern
-      horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like
-      amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not a
-      sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without
-      difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space.
-      Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe
-      that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace, and the
-      earth was standing still,&mdash;a belief just as grand, just as thrilling,
-      so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun long before
-      they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent astronomer, with
-      the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end, could have had more
-      delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than did this
-      simple-minded, unlearned man.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to the
-      windows of the house, yet dark and still. &ldquo;Which window is hers? Will she
-      open it when the song begins?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Is it on this side of the
-      house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. Saw the saints ever so
-      beautiful a creature!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to his
-      feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south window,
-      and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks streaming back,
-      began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,&mdash;
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-     &ldquo;O beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven.&rdquo;
- </pre>
-    <p>
-      Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined in,&mdash;the
-      Senora, from her room at the west end of the veranda, beyond the flowers;
-      Felipe, from the adjoining room; Ramona, from hers, the next; and
-      Margarita and other of the maids already astir in the wings of the house.
-      As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries waked, and the finches and
-      the linnets in the veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were laid on
-      bundles of tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build their
-      nests. The roof was alive with them,&mdash;scores and scores, nay
-      hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the tuning
-      of myriads of violins.
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-     &ldquo;Singers at dawn
-     From the heavens above
-     People all regions;
-     Gladly we too sing,&rdquo;
- </pre>
-    <p>
-      continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's voices
-      joined in,&mdash;Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up from
-      the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all.
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-     &ldquo;Come, O sinners,
-     Come, and we will sing
-     Tender hymns
-     To our refuge,&rdquo;
- </pre>
-    <p>
-      was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been the
-      leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of its
-      splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music. Some
-      of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not only
-      sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at any of
-      the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments as at
-      San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and spared no
-      pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who showed any
-      special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the breaking up of
-      the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band of his Indians,
-      and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep up the old religious
-      services. The music in the little chapel of the Temecula Indians was a
-      surprise to all who heard it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and knew
-      all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-     &ldquo;Beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven,&rdquo;
- </pre>
-    <p>
-      was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse
-      rising, he could not forbear striking in.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in
-      surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking in
-      all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang no
-      more.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What could it have been? Did I dream it?&rdquo; thought Ramona, drew in her
-      head, and began to sing again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They
-      seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great
-      wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had a good
-      tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but this&mdash;this
-      was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of it
-      penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain. When
-      the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra would
-      strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this morning;
-      there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to be at work:
-      windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all directions,
-      ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun rose and let
-      a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt
-      thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy
-      altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good as
-      new.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming
-      towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief
-      bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her
-      face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the
-      veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already
-      entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from his
-      vantage-post of observation at the willows.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver urn
-      filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding
-      these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky canon,
-      several miles away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly up
-      the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing why,
-      thought, &ldquo;That must be the Indian who sang.&rdquo; As she turned to the right
-      and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and knelt on
-      the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she came out.
-      As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, place the
-      ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in front of the
-      altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a look as of
-      secret intelligence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife,&rdquo; thought Alessandro, and a
-      strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; hardly knew what it meant.
-      He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much about women. He was a
-      distant, cold boy, his own people of the Temecula village said. It had
-      come, they believed, of learning to read, which was always bad. Chief
-      Pablo had not done his son any good by trying to make him like white men.
-      If the Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission have gone
-      on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers, as his
-      father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand man at the
-      Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid the wages;
-      handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But that was &ldquo;in the
-      time of the king;&rdquo; it was very different now. The Americans would not let
-      an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle. A man need not
-      read and write, to do that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching
-      Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and
-      far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides.
-      Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: &ldquo;Pablo, your
-      people will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless you keep them
-      together. Knit firm bonds between them; band them into pueblos; make them
-      work; and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is your only chance.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He
-      had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in
-      his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his
-      little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever
-      there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from house
-      to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the peace. At
-      one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian tribes
-      farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would be a general
-      Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men, women, and
-      children driving their flocks and herds with them, to Los Angeles, and
-      camped there for several days, that they might be identified with the
-      whites in case hostilities became serious.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every
-      day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased, he
-      saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his anxieties
-      deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend of Father
-      Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned to Mexico in
-      disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was reported to be
-      lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo, that he and his
-      people should always live in the valley undisturbed, was all the title
-      Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the promise was given, it
-      was all that was necessary. The lines marking off the Indians' lands were
-      surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No Mexican proprietor ever
-      broke faith with an Indian family or village, thus placed on his lands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such
-      pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held as of no
-      value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent enough to
-      see that if this were so, he and his people were ruined. All these
-      perplexities and fears he confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the
-      father and son spent together, walking back and forth in the village, or
-      sitting in front of their little adobe house, discussing what could be
-      done. There was always the same ending to the discussion,&mdash;a long
-      sigh, and, &ldquo;We must wait, we can do nothing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young
-      men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old
-      before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they knew
-      nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was no
-      drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the
-      hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy
-      work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro and
-      his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why Alessandro
-      had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this, and also the fact
-      that even the little education he had received was sufficient to raise a
-      slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously aware, between him and the
-      maidens of the village. If a quick, warm fancy for any one of them ever
-      stirred in his veins, he found himself soon, he knew not how, cured of it.
-      For a dance, or a game, or a friendly chat, for the trips into the
-      mountains after acorns, or to the marshes for grasses and reeds, he was
-      their good comrade, and they were his; but never had the desire to take
-      one of them for his wife, entered into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the
-      future, for him, was filled full by thoughts which left no room for love's
-      dreaming; one purpose and one fear filled it,&mdash;the purpose to be his
-      father's worthy successor, for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the
-      fear, that exile and ruin were in store for them all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in advance
-      of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona kneeling at
-      the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed to Alessandro
-      that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The purposes and the
-      fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague wonder, pain, joy, he
-      knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that he was bewildered. If he
-      had been what the world calls a civilized man, he would have known
-      instantly and would have been capable of weighing, analyzing, and
-      reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not a civilized man;
-      he had to bring to bear on his present situation only simple, primitive,
-      uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been a maiden of his own
-      people or race, he would have drawn near to her as quickly as iron to the
-      magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even think of her in such a
-      way, she would have been, to his view, as far removed from him as was the
-      morning star beneath whose radiance he had that morning watched, hoping
-      for sight of her at her window. He did not, however, go so far as to thus
-      think of her. Even that would have been impossible. He only knelt on the
-      stones outside the chapel door, mechanically repeating the prayers with
-      the rest, waiting for her to reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was
-      Senor Felipe's wife; all the same he wished to kneel there till she came
-      out, that he might see her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope,
-      had narrowed now down to that,&mdash;just one more sight of her. Ever so
-      civilized, he could hardly have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed
-      to him endlessly long. Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in
-      the closing of the final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear
-      deep-toned voice pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great
-      sea-wave, sweeping along.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as
-      much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees,
-      she whispered to Felipe: &ldquo;Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians it
-      is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, that is Alessandro,&rdquo; replied Felipe, &ldquo;old Pablo's son. He is a
-      splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was not here,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;you forget.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Well, he was
-      here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though he was only
-      twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They saved nearly all their
-      money to carry home, and I never knew them do such a thing before. Father
-      Salvierderra was here, which might have had something to do with it; but I
-      think it was quite as much Alessandro. He plays the violin beautifully. I
-      hope he has brought it along. He plays the old San Luis Rey music. His
-      father was band-master there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. &ldquo;Does your mother like it, to have
-      him play?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe nodded. &ldquo;We'll have him up on the veranda tonight,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied, the
-      Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work.
-      Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was
-      sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: &ldquo;What are you gaping at
-      there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After waiting
-      till near midsummer for this shearing, we'll make as quick work of it as
-      we can. Have you got your best shearers here?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, that I have,&rdquo; answered Alessandro; &ldquo;not a man of them but can shear
-      his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in all San Diego
-      County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either; you'll see
-      scarce a scratch on their sides.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Humph.&rdquo; retorted Juan Can. &ldquo;'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws blood
-      to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and never a red
-      stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed for good
-      shearers.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan's invidious emphasis on the word &ldquo;Mexicans&rdquo; did not escape
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;And we Indians also,&rdquo; he answered, good-naturedly, betraying
-      no annoyance; &ldquo;but as for these Americans, I saw one at work the other
-      day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, and upon my faith, Juan
-      Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing. The poor beasts
-      limped off with the blood running.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to
-      this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority of
-      Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with
-      another &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the
-      sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still
-      further.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The shearing
-      shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,&mdash;a long, narrow
-      structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and pillars;
-      no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart as was safe, for
-      the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks loosely laid from
-      beam to beam. On three sides of this were the sheep-pens filled with sheep
-      and lambs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be
-      cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed
-      only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians had
-      already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had been built,
-      but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their blankets, on the
-      ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored wings of the windmill
-      blew furiously round and round, pumping out into the tank below a stream
-      of water so swift and strong, that as the men crowded around, wetting and
-      sharpening their knives, they got well spattered, and had much merriment,
-      pushing and elbowing each other into the spray.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from the
-      four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the fleeces were
-      to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the foot of the
-      posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. &ldquo;We'll fill more than those
-      before night, Senor Felipe,&rdquo; he said. He was in his element, Juan Can, at
-      shearing times. Then came his reward for the somewhat monotonous and
-      stupid year's work. The world held no better feast for his eyes than the
-      sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied, stamped with the Moreno
-      brand, ready to be drawn away to the mills. &ldquo;Now, there is something
-      substantial,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;no chance of wool going amiss in market!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next six
-      months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and spent the
-      next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and redoubling his
-      exertions with the sheep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like
-      half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these, to
-      the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and pack
-      them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below. Luigo,
-      with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with five-cent
-      pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty shearers,
-      running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into the shed, in a
-      twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees, helpless,
-      immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The sheep-shearing
-      had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the bleating, baa-ing,
-      opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, flying of fleeces
-      through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping them down in the bales;
-      not a second's intermission, except the hour of rest at noon, from sunrise
-      till sunset, till the whole eight thousand of the Senora Moreno's sheep
-      were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As soon as a sheep was shorn, the
-      shearer ran with the fleece in his hand to Luigo, threw it down on a
-      table, received his five-cent piece, dropped it in his pocket, ran to the
-      pen, dragged out another sheep, and in less than five minutes was back
-      again with a second fleece. The shorn sheep, released, bounded off into
-      another pen, where, light in the head no doubt from being three to five
-      pounds lighter on their legs, they trotted round bewilderedly for a
-      moment, then flung up their heels and capered for joy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet filled
-      the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off the men's
-      faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found out very
-      soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength since the
-      fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for the recollection
-      of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and yielded his place to
-      the old man. But he was resolved not to give up, and he worked on, though
-      his face was purple and his head throbbing. After the bag of fleeces is
-      half full, the packer stands in it, jumping with his full weight on the
-      wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to compress them as much as possible.
-      When Felipe began to do this, he found that he had indeed overrated his
-      strength. As the first cloud of the sickening dust came up, enveloping his
-      head, choking his breath, he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly,
-      &ldquo;Juan, I am ill,&rdquo; sank helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan
-      Canito's scream of dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw
-      instantly what had happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge
-      of the bag, Juan in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his
-      side to lift him. One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until
-      they were all standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one
-      proposing one thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence of mind
-      to run to the house for help. The Senora was away from home. She had gone
-      with Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's journey off.
-      But Ramona was there. Snatching all she could think of in way of
-      restoratives, she came flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant
-      of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticulating, suggesting,
-      wringing their hands,&mdash;as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad
-      matters worse.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
-       she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's arms,
-      just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned, &ldquo;Oh, how will he ever be
-      lifted out!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will lift him, Senora,&rdquo; cried Alessandro, coming to the front, &ldquo;I am
-      very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down.&rdquo; And swinging
-      himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and returned,
-      bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the roof again, he
-      knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them at the middle around
-      his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold him firm. He
-      spoke in the Indian tongue as he was hurriedly doing this, and Ramona did
-      not at first understand his plan. But when she saw the Indians move a
-      little back from the edge of the roof, holding the blankets firm grasped,
-      while Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow cross-beams from which
-      the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She held her breath. Felipe
-      was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier, and many inches taller.
-      Still, could any man carry such a burden safely on that narrow beam!
-      Ramona looked away, and shut her eyes, through the silence which followed.
-      It was only a few moments; but it seemed an eternity before a glad murmur
-      of voices told her that it was done, and looking up, she saw Felipe lying
-      on the roof, unconscious, his face white, his eyes shut. At this sight,
-      all the servants broke out afresh, weeping and wailing, &ldquo;He is dead! He is
-      dead!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too,
-      believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He is not dead,&rdquo; cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under
-      Felipe's shirt. &ldquo;He is not dead. It is only a faint.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously at
-      the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it were an
-      easy indoor staircase. &ldquo;If I could only get up there!&rdquo; she said, looking
-      from one to another. &ldquo;I think I can;&rdquo; and she put one foot on the lower
-      round.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. &ldquo;Senorita! Senorita!
-      do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will break your neck.
-      He is fast coming to his senses.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of the
-      scene, his heart heard the word, &ldquo;Senorita.&rdquo; Ramona was not the wife of
-      Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he had addressed
-      her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. Coming to the front of the
-      group he said, bending forward, &ldquo;Senorita!&rdquo; There must have been something
-      in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word could not have done
-      it. &ldquo;Senorita,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;it will be nothing to bring Senor Felipe
-      down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more than one of the lambs yonder.
-      I will bring him down as soon as he is recovered. He is better here till
-      then. He will very soon be himself again. It was only the heat.&rdquo; Seeing
-      that the expression of anxious distress did not grow less on Ramona's
-      face, he continued, in a tone still more earnest, &ldquo;Will not the Senorita
-      trust me to bring him safe down?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I will trust
-      you. You are Alessandro, are you not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita,&rdquo; he answered, greatly surprised, &ldquo;I am Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      VI
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's
-      sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against Roman
-      Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the way
-      things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was being
-      punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a standstill,
-      to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora, looking at the
-      other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude that, since all this
-      ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father Salvierderra at her
-      side to give her comfort and counsel.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell
-      in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when Juan
-      Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor Felipe's
-      place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground, and broke
-      his right leg,&mdash;a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's bones
-      were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able to do
-      more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was
-      a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith
-      in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous beratings and
-      reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had
-      she known that such blasphemies were being committed under her roof.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!&rdquo; cried Juan; &ldquo;only
-      the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that whole
-      box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned to
-      Saint Francis in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit in
-      the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What are
-      they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll pray no
-      more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us.&rdquo; From morning
-      till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he
-      slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and swore and
-      grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita said, to
-      wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no pleasing him,
-      whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute. For her part,
-      she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends had pushed him
-      off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons for leaving him
-      to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up in the minds of
-      all the servants towards him. His own reckless language, combined with
-      Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believing that
-      something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the Devil was in a fair
-      way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old man, in addition to
-      all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he had for his torments,
-      was in having his fellow-servants, men and women, drop in, sit by his
-      pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was going on; and when by
-      degrees they dropped off, coming more and more seldom, and one by one
-      leaving off coming altogether, it was the one drop that overflowed his cup
-      of misery; and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling, and
-      spoke only when he must.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she
-      thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the
-      Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the
-      needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the
-      doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie
-      still in bed and be thus tended. &ldquo;Three months!&rdquo; sighed Margarita. &ldquo;If I
-      be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought to
-      Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a fierce
-      relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and raving in
-      delirium, always about the wool.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a
-      round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!&mdash;Jesus, how this
-      sun burns my head!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Several times he had called &ldquo;Alessandro&rdquo; so earnestly, that Father
-      Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any
-      chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say
-      to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at him
-      vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however,
-      &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin,&rdquo; sobbed out
-      Ramona. &ldquo;He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said he
-      would have him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We might try it,&rdquo; said Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;Have you your violin here,
-      Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alas, no, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;I did not bring it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;He
-      was speaking of your voice also.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, try, try.&rdquo; said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. &ldquo;Sing something
-      low and soft.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking for
-      a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An
-      expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head
-      to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three
-      watching him looked at each other in astonishment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is a miracle,&rdquo; said Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;He will sleep.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It was what he wanted!&rdquo; whispered Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a second;
-      then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying to a
-      saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower, till
-      the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower, slower;
-      finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As they
-      ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, go on, go on!&rdquo; the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with anxiety.
-      &ldquo;Do not stop!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the air
-      in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt something
-      like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by reason of the
-      notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's healthy outdoor
-      experience to enable him to understand such a phenomenon. Felipe breathed
-      more and more slowly, softly, regularly; soon he was in a deep sleep. The
-      singing stopped; Felipe did not stir.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can I go?&rdquo; whispered Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo; replied the Senora, impatiently. &ldquo;He may wake any minute.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and remained
-      standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on one side of
-      the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,&mdash;all praying;
-      the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary beads
-      slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall, at the
-      head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side a
-      picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long wicks
-      smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as the ends
-      fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the Madonna. The
-      Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming down her
-      face as she mechanically told her beads.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She is his betrothed, no doubt,&rdquo; thought Alessandro. &ldquo;The saints will not
-      let him die;&rdquo; and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the scene
-      was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he vaulted
-      over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound, &ldquo;I will not
-      go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he awakes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly about
-      him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then he threw
-      himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into the sky.
-      Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at full length
-      by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the house that
-      danger and anguish were there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. Alessandro
-      rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora had not
-      changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer. But Ramona
-      had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a sitting posture,
-      with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead, and fallen asleep.
-      Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and heavy circles under
-      her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and nights she had
-      scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's
-      illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be
-      done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and
-      through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down with grief at the
-      thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till she saw him lying
-      there delirious, and as she in her inexperience thought, dying, how her
-      whole life was entwined with his. But now, at the very thought of what it
-      would be to live without him, her heart sickened. &ldquo;When he is buried, I
-      will ask Father Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here
-      alone,&rdquo; she said to herself, never for a moment perceiving that the word
-      &ldquo;alone&rdquo; was a strange one to have come into her mind in the connection.
-      The thought of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations of the
-      future which so smote her with terror. In the Senora's presence, Ramona
-      always felt herself alone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill, his
-      eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's eyes she
-      had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more beautiful
-      than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a lover's
-      instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines on her face in
-      the last three days. &ldquo;It will kill her if he dies,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;if these
-      three days have made her look like that.&rdquo; And Alessandro threw himself on
-      the ground again, his face down. He did not know whether it were an hour
-      or a day that he had lain there, when he heard Father Salvierderra's voice
-      speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old monk standing in the
-      window, tears running down his cheeks. &ldquo;God be praised,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the
-      Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has broken out on his skin; he still
-      sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in his right mind. The strength of
-      the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we know not how to spare you. Can
-      you not let the men go without you, and remain here? The Senora would like
-      to have you remain in Juan Can's place till he is about. She will give you
-      the same wages he had. Would it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro?
-      You cannot be sure of earning so much as that for the next three months,
-      can you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in Alessandro's
-      breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which were warring
-      there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling in opposite
-      directions; one saying &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; and the other saying &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; He would not
-      have known what any one meant, who had said to him, &ldquo;It is danger to stay;
-      it is safety to fly.&rdquo; All the same, he felt as if he could do neither.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is another shearing yet, Father,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;at the Ortega's ranch.
-      I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and they have
-      been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not do to break
-      the promise, Father.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Salvierderra's face fell. &ldquo;No, my son, certainly not,&rdquo; he said;
-      &ldquo;but could no one else take your place with the band?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out,
-      whispered, &ldquo;Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come and
-      talk to him. He must not go.&rdquo; And running swiftly through the hall, across
-      the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side in a
-      moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: &ldquo;We can't let you go,
-      Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your place
-      with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place till he is
-      well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing again, and
-      what would we do then? Can't you stay?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I can stay, Senorita,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, gravely. &ldquo;I will stay so
-      long as you need me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, Alessandro!&rdquo; Ramona cried. &ldquo;You are good, to stay. The
-      Senora will see that it is no loss to you;&rdquo; and she flew back to the
-      house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is not for the wages, Senorita,&rdquo; Alessandro began; but Ramona was
-      gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of
-      humiliation. &ldquo;I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money
-      kept me,&rdquo; he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;I would not leave the
-      band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, yes, son. I understand that,&rdquo; replied the monk, who had known
-      Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San
-      Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. &ldquo;That is quite right of you,
-      and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such things
-      that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and only the two
-      women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way North again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; replied Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;These relapses are always
-      worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after he
-      had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I doubt
-      not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will be much
-      to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up, too, just at
-      this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most rebellious frame of
-      mind, and blasphemes impiously.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That does he!&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;He swears the saints gave him over to
-      the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from
-      this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things
-      yet if he did not mend his speech of them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: &ldquo;It is but a sign of
-      the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being corrupted.
-      Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a priest come
-      often to the village?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Only twice a year,&rdquo; replied Alessandro; &ldquo;and sometimes for a funeral, if
-      there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the chapel
-      open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the people are
-      often there praying.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, ay! Ever for money!&rdquo; groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the
-      latter part of the sentence. &ldquo;Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it
-      were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once in
-      three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, if you could, Father,&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro, &ldquo;it would make my father
-      very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees between the
-      words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He is very sad,
-      Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the Americans, when
-      they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as if they were dogs;
-      they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think that can be so,
-      Father, when we have always lived on them, and the owners promised them to
-      us forever?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and Alessandro
-      watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for words to convey
-      his meaning. At last he said: &ldquo;Got your father any notice, at any time
-      since the Americans took the country,&mdash;notice to appear before a
-      court, or anything about a title to the land?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,&rdquo; continued
-      the monk; &ldquo;some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians
-      from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If
-      you have had no such notice, you are not in danger.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, Father,&rdquo; persisted Alessandro, &ldquo;how could there be a law to take
-      away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked off
-      by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries of
-      Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass and wood to
-      measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry. I
-      myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's house,&mdash;Senor
-      Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He hired one of
-      our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I wished to see
-      how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose told me a man
-      must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to me our way, by
-      the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked on the map, for
-      it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and Jose Ramirez and
-      Senor Valdez both pointed to it with their finger, and they said, 'All
-      this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think my father need
-      fear, do you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I hope not,&rdquo; replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; &ldquo;but since the way
-      that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have small
-      faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all that
-      they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is what my father says,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;He says, 'Look at San
-      Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all their vast lands
-      where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church and the
-      Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?' That is what
-      my father says.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;True, true!&rdquo; said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room where
-      Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see Father
-      Salvierderra's face coming in. &ldquo;We are all alike helpless in their hands,
-      Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they please.
-      We can only say, 'God's will be done,'&rdquo; and he crossed himself devoutly,
-      repeating the words twice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full
-      of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on
-      towards the shearing-shed he thought: &ldquo;Then, again, how can it be God's
-      will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should steal
-      from another all he has. That would make God no better than a thief, it
-      looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula.
-      Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had
-      grappled with the problem in one shape or another.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and ill-humor.
-      The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning, and why were
-      they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,&mdash;it was now
-      near sunset,&mdash;with nothing to do, and still worse with not much of
-      anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The economical
-      Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and supposing they
-      would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the
-      day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her cue
-      from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the family needed themselves;
-      so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry day of it, in no wise
-      alleviated either by the reports brought from time to time that their
-      captain was lying on the ground, face down, under Senor Felipe's window,
-      and must not be spoken to.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement of
-      his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in few
-      words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by setting
-      them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place for the
-      remainder of the season.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very well!&rdquo; they said hotly; &ldquo;captain for this year, captain for next,
-      too!&rdquo; It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the
-      shearers!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;please yourselves! It is all the same to
-      me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra
-      wishes it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah, that alters the
-      case!&rdquo; &ldquo;Alessandro is right!&rdquo; came up in confused murmur from the appeased
-      crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula men, and
-      would never think of going against the Father's orders. But when they
-      understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until Juan Canito's
-      leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh grumblings
-      began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro must be at
-      home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,&mdash;no doing anything
-      without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the midsummer
-      fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as the Senorita
-      Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing except the
-      Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had had a hundred
-      engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he
-      was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be confessed he was for a
-      moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was a time, when, as he well
-      knew, his father could not do without his help. There were sometimes a
-      thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly whites took advantage of the
-      occasion to sell whisky and encourage all sorts of license and
-      disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty lay at Temecula when
-      that fete came off. That was certain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will manage to be at home then,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If I am not through here by
-      that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend on.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact, but
-      one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only old
-      man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys.
-      Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged, two
-      years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was
-      getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the
-      first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling away
-      all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his blanket
-      at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for these few
-      remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office again. And
-      Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they ought all to see
-      that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with the men.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend of
-      theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the Temecula
-      shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if they did not
-      do all they could to help her in her need.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught and
-      driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at full
-      speed from the house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo; cried Ramona, out of breath, &ldquo;I have only just
-      now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you
-      know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house.
-      Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have a
-      good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona
-      spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial
-      outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too ready
-      to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega sheep-shearing
-      had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro hesitated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's,&rdquo; he said to the men. &ldquo;You'll be
-      late in, if you do not start now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Supper will be ready in an hour,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Please let them stay; one
-      hour can't make any difference.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro smiled. &ldquo;It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are
-      off,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you,
-      Senorita, for thinking of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, I did not think of it myself,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;It was Margarita, here,
-      who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the shearers go
-      away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed,&rdquo; she added ruefully.
-      &ldquo;It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything to eat; they had
-      their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, &ldquo;but that is not long; one can do
-      without food very well for one day. I often do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Often.&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona; &ldquo;but why should you do that?&rdquo; Then suddenly
-      bethinking herself, she said in her heart, &ldquo;Oh, what a thoughtless
-      question! Can it be they are so poor as that?&rdquo; And to save Alessandro from
-      replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, &ldquo;Come, come,
-      Margarita, we must go and help at the supper.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Will the Senorita let me help, too,&rdquo; asked Alessandro, wondering at his
-      own boldness,&mdash;&ldquo;if there is anything I can do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help carry
-      the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with Juan Can
-      in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some of your men
-      might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are ready.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting, and
-      laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and the shed.
-      He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons, frying,
-      pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently old Marda
-      meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also
-      heard and smelled what was going on. &ldquo;May the fiends get me,&rdquo; he growled,
-      &ldquo;if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast for those beasts of
-      Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers stewing, and potatoes,
-      I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for beggars that are only too
-      thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or a bowl of acorn porridge at
-      home. Well, they'll have to say they were well feasted at the Moreno's,&mdash;that's
-      one comfort. I wonder if Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that
-      stew! San Jose! but it smells well! Margarita! Margarita!&rdquo; he called at
-      top of his lungs; but Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her
-      duties in the kitchen; and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of
-      the good broth which the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must
-      eat for two weeks, she had dismissed him from her mind for the night.
-      Moreover, Margarita was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in
-      love with the handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the
-      year before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to
-      her, evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed,
-      when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, through
-      which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor Felipe's
-      illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, had perhaps
-      put everything else out of his head; but now he was going to stay, and it
-      would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe got well, which
-      he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about, here, there, and
-      everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing
-      up and down in the dusk outside.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off at
-      the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, &ldquo;I will call you when we are
-      ready.&rdquo; But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Run, Margarita,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in
-      sight. Call him to come and take the things.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called &ldquo;Alessandro!
-      Alessandro! the supper is ready.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there
-      holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so roused
-      poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave it into
-      Alessandro's hands, &ldquo;Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The gravy
-      will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting on
-      table;&rdquo; and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's eyes,&mdash;a
-      little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to making him
-      drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than
-      an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to set
-      off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. &ldquo;Jose,&rdquo; he
-      said, &ldquo;whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mine,&rdquo; promptly replied Jose. &ldquo;Mine, by a great deal. I will run Antonio
-      any day he likes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was
-      learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little
-      diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back.
-      He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there
-      was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of the
-      fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for his
-      messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his horse
-      to its utmost speed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, &ldquo;Will you go? I will pay
-      you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; said Jose, elated. &ldquo;You will see me back tomorrow by
-      sundown.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not earlier?&rdquo; asked Alessandro. &ldquo;I thought by noon.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, by noon be it, then,&rdquo; said Jose. &ldquo;The horse can do it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have great care!&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That will I,&rdquo; replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch
-      with his knees, set off at full gallop westward.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,&rdquo; said Alessandro, walking up
-      to Fernando. &ldquo;He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the
-      Ortega's the next morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Back here by noon to-morrow!&rdquo; exclaimed Fernando. &ldquo;Not unless he kills
-      his horse!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That was what he said,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Easy enough, too!&rdquo; cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. &ldquo;I'd
-      go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for her, and
-      never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is your horse really faster than Jose's?&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Then I wish I
-      had sent you. I'll send you next time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      VII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into his
-      place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough places
-      became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old Juan Can
-      had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the news of his
-      staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for since his accident
-      Juan had not been without fears that he might lose his place altogether;
-      there was a Mexican he knew, who had long been scheming to get the
-      situation, and had once openly boasted at a fandango, where he was dancing
-      with Anita, that as soon as that superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was
-      out of the way, he meant to be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself.
-      To have seen this man in authority on the place, would have driven Juan
-      out of his mind.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,&mdash;and of course the Senora
-      would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a
-      position on the estate,&mdash;it was exactly as Juan would have wished;
-      and he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in
-      his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and
-      explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro
-      understood far better than he did.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis
-      Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly
-      as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither
-      did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position of
-      his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was an
-      Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of
-      Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's mind
-      to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan had
-      been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully
-      trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite
-      usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he
-      would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents were
-      different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be entirely
-      on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew, of which
-      Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others in which
-      Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the things of the
-      soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher of the two. Felipe
-      was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but circumstances and
-      opportunity would have a hold on him they could never get on Alessandro.
-      Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro was by nature full of
-      veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had been trained into being
-      a good Catholic. But they were both singularly pure-minded, open-hearted,
-      generous-souled young men, and destined, by the strange chance which had
-      thus brought them into familiar relations, to become strongly attached to
-      each other. After the day on which the madness of Felipe's fever had been
-      so miraculously soothed and controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was
-      never again wildly delirious. When he waked in the night from that first
-      long sleep, he was, as Father Salvierderra had predicted, in his right
-      mind; knew every one, and asked rational questions. But the over-heated
-      and excited brain did not for some time wholly resume normal action. At
-      intervals he wandered, especially when just arousing from sleep; and,
-      strangely enough, it was always for Alessandro that he called at these
-      times, and it seemed always to be music that he craved. He recollected
-      Alessandro's having sung to him that first night. &ldquo;I was not so crazy as
-      you all thought,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I knew a great many of the things I said, but
-      I couldn't help saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing;
-      and when he began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down and
-      put her hand on my head and cooled it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left, Alessandro,
-      seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps, and said,
-      &ldquo;Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the violin to him
-      tonight?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, whose violin have you got?&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona, astonished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My own, Senorita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is
-      here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sent to Temecula and back already!&rdquo; cried Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a hundred
-      miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and he is at the
-      Ortega's by this time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's eyes glistened. &ldquo;I wish I could have thanked him,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You
-      should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I paid him, Senorita; he went for me,&rdquo; said Alessandro, with a shade of
-      wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did
-      not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would
-      rather pay the messenger herself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear
-      the violin, I will play;&rdquo; and Alessandro walked slowly away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no
-      thought of his being an Indian,&mdash;a thought there had surely been no
-      need of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's;
-      but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she
-      forgotten it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What a superb head, and what a walk!&rdquo; she thought. Then, looking more
-      observantly, she said: &ldquo;He walks as if he were offended. He did not like
-      my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted to do it for dear Felipe.
-      I will tell Felipe, and we will give him some present when he goes away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Isn't he splendid, Senorita?&rdquo; came in a light laughing tone from
-      Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their relation.
-      &ldquo;Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he dances! Last
-      year I danced with him every night; he has wings on his feet, for all he
-      is so tall and big.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was
-      suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to Ramona.
-      Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had never
-      before in her life used. &ldquo;It is not fitting to speak like that about young
-      men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you,&rdquo; she said, and
-      walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if she had got
-      a box on the ear.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's. She
-      had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly
-      bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds,
-      reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the
-      harsh speech from her mind. &ldquo;Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita,&rdquo; she
-      thought, &ldquo;to make her speak like that to me.&rdquo; But the incident was not so
-      easily dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the day it
-      recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from solution
-      as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream of; but it was
-      dropped in soil where it would grow some day,&mdash;forcing-house soil,
-      and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an enemy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona
-      proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by his
-      side, as she had sat for days and nights,&mdash;her dark face looking
-      thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that
-      could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear Senora,&rdquo; whispered Ramona, &ldquo;do go out for a few moments while he
-      sleeps, and let me watch,&mdash;just on the walk in front of the veranda.
-      The sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if you do
-      not have air.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora shook her head. &ldquo;My place is here,&rdquo; she answered, speaking in a
-      dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished
-      neither to give it nor take it. &ldquo;I shall not leave him. I do not need the
-      air.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now
-      shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It
-      was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near
-      Felipe's head. &ldquo;He will like to see it when he wakes,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. &ldquo;Take it away!
-      Flowers are poison when one is ill,&rdquo; she said coldly. &ldquo;Have I never told
-      you that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at the
-      saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's
-      pillow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The musk is different,&rdquo; said the Senora, seeing the glance. &ldquo;Musk is a
-      medicine; it revives.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated
-      musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his mother
-      was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and the house
-      would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her faint, with
-      a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have confessed as
-      much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought it all a
-      fancy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Shall I stay?&rdquo; asked Ramona, gently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As you please,&rdquo; replied the Senora. The simple presence of Ramona irked
-      her now with a feeling she did not pretend to analyze, and would have been
-      terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to say to herself, in
-      plain words: &ldquo;Why is that girl well and strong, and my Felipe lying here
-      like to die! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight of her. What is she,
-      to be preserved of the saints!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona entered
-      the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to Felipe. If
-      it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but her own do
-      aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated her. &ldquo;What
-      does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!&rdquo; thought the
-      Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely forgetting how
-      feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of love in the heart.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one
-      second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already
-      occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died
-      herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge was
-      possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's mind. A
-      revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her ears. So
-      impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are forever held
-      by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of our daily
-      companions.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had
-      dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Send for Alessandro,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Let him come and sing to me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,&rdquo; said
-      Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the messenger's
-      having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a day, to bring it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wanted to pay the man,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I knew of course your mother would
-      wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me
-      shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You couldn't have offended him more,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;What a pity! He is as
-      proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has always
-      been the head of their band; in fact, he has authority over several bands;
-      General, they call it now, since they got the title from the Americans;
-      they used to call it Chief., and until Father Peyri left San Luis Rey,
-      Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general steward and paymaster.
-      Father Peyri trusted him with everything; I've heard he would leave boxes
-      full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off the Indians. Pablo
-      reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as many sheep as we have, I
-      fancy!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona, astonished. &ldquo;They all look as if they were
-      poor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, well, so they are,&rdquo; replied Felipe, &ldquo;compared with us; but one reason
-      is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds and supports
-      half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he will never see
-      one of his Indians hungry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How generous!&rdquo; warmly exclaimed Ramona; &ldquo;I think they are better than we
-      are, Felipe!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think so, too,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;That's what I have always said. The
-      Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they have
-      learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when the Fathers
-      first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. He has read all
-      Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is wonderful
-      how the wild savages gave food to every one who came.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felipe, you are talking too much,&rdquo; said the Senora's voice, in the
-      doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she had
-      said in words, &ldquo;See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No wonder
-      I do not leave the room except when I must!&rdquo; her meaning could not have
-      been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some misgiving that
-      it was deserved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?&rdquo; she said timidly; and to the Senora,
-      &ldquo;Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Tell him to bring
-      his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few
-      minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds,
-      vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,&mdash;Ramona searched them all
-      in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking
-      down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by
-      the washing-stones.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can he be there?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What can he be doing there? Who is it with
-      him?&rdquo; And she walked down the path, calling, &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion, and
-      almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face to
-      face with Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my violin here. I
-      thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him in the twilight.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Ramona, &ldquo;he wishes to hear you. I have been looking
-      everywhere for you.&rdquo; As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering
-      beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the
-      brook.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. &ldquo;It is
-      Margarita,&rdquo; he said instantly. &ldquo;Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run
-      and call her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew
-      she was displeased; &ldquo;no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing
-      there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She is washing,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, innocently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Washing at this time of day!&rdquo; thought Ramona, severely. &ldquo;A mere pretext.
-      I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort of thing.&rdquo;
-       And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side, she meditated
-      whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the subject in the
-      morning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections not
-      the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water, she
-      said to herself, &ldquo;I may as well finish them now I am here. How provoking!
-      I've no more than got a word with him, than she must come, calling him
-      away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow, at the first word. I'd
-      like to know what's come over the man, to be so different. If I could ever
-      get a good half-hour with him alone, I'd soon find out. Oh, but his eyes
-      go through me, through and through me! I know he's an Indian, but what do
-      I care for that. He's a million times handsomer than Senor Felipe. And
-      Juan Jose said the other day he'd make enough better head shepherd than
-      old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only see it; and why shouldn't he get to
-      see it, if Alessandro's here all summer?&rdquo; And before the aprons were done,
-      Margarita had a fine air-castle up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice
-      little house, children playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch,
-      she herself still working for the Senora. &ldquo;And the Senorita will perhaps
-      marry Senor Felipe,&rdquo; she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. &ldquo;He
-      worships the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye can
-      see that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is
-      sure to have a wife, and so and so.&rdquo; It was an innocent, girlish castle,
-      built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or low,
-      need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would
-      presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never
-      dreamed of.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business
-      with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind that
-      before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long talk with
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;He was fond enough of me last year, I know,&rdquo; she said to
-      herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night leave-takings at
-      that time. &ldquo;It's because he is so put upon by everybody now. What with
-      Juan Can in one bed sending for him to prate to him about the sheep, and
-      Senor Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to sleep, and all
-      the care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his mind altogether.
-      But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's sun sets. If I can
-      once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after that; I know the way
-      it is with men!&rdquo; said the confident Margarita, who, truth being told, it
-      must be admitted, did indeed know a great deal about the way it is with
-      men, and could be safely backed, in a fair field, with a fair start,
-      against any girl of her age and station in the country. So much for
-      Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day destined to be an eventful one
-      in her life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some
-      reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's
-      having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening, but
-      would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther signs of
-      her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection for
-      Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's
-      displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also
-      aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect
-      ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. &ldquo;And he is not
-      really to blame,&rdquo; thought Ramona, &ldquo;if a girl follows him about and makes
-      free with him. She must have seen him at the willows, and gone down there
-      on purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For she never in
-      this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he must have known, if
-      he were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it seems to me, to be
-      fooling with maids. He seems as full of grave thought as Father
-      Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I shall speak
-      to her myself, kindly but firmly, and tell her to conduct herself more
-      discreetly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being
-      concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and
-      grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the
-      phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I wonder any girl
-      should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me,
-      feel a constraint. There is something in them like the eyes of a saint, so
-      solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day a
-      demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs, things
-      could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did; for it was
-      not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at her embroidery
-      in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro going with his
-      pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at the east of the
-      garden, and joining the almond orchard. &ldquo;I wonder what he is going to do
-      there,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He can't be going to cut willows;&rdquo; and her eyes
-      followed him till he disappeared among the trees.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the east
-      window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. &ldquo;Now's my
-      chance!&rdquo; she said; and throwing a white reboso coquettishly over her head,
-      she slipped around the corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the
-      direction in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her steps reached
-      Ramona, who, lifting her eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance.
-      There was no possible duty, no possible message, which would take
-      Margarita there. Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate
-      indignation. But she bethought herself, &ldquo;Ah, the Senora may have sent her
-      to call Alessandro!&rdquo; She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, and
-      looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, with her
-      eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and looked
-      inquiringly at Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you know where Margarita is?&rdquo; said Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda,&rdquo;
-       replied the Senora, in a whisper. &ldquo;I told her to help Marda with the
-      peppers this morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on her
-      course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father Salvierderra's
-      room, looked in. The room was still in disorder. Margarita had left her
-      work there unfinished. The color deepened on Ramona's cheeks. It was
-      strange how accurately she divined each process of the incident. &ldquo;She saw
-      him from this window,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;and has run after him. It is
-      shameful. I will go and call her back, and let her see that I saw it all.
-      It is high time that this was stopped.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her
-      chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will wait here till she comes back,&rdquo; she said, and took up her
-      embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly by, she sat
-      with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first Alessandro and then
-      Margarita had disappeared. At last she could bear it no longer. It seemed
-      to her already a very long time. It was not in reality very long,&mdash;a
-      half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long enough for Margarita to have
-      made great headway, as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro, and for
-      things to have reached just the worst possible crisis at which they could
-      have been surprised, when Ramona suddenly appeared at the orchard gate,
-      saying in a stern tone, &ldquo;Margarita, you are wanted in the house!&rdquo; At a bad
-      crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture which Ramona had
-      seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro, standing with his
-      back against the fence, his right hand hanging listlessly down, with the
-      pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand of Margarita, who stood
-      close to him, looking up in his face, with a half-saucy, half-loving
-      expression. What made bad matters worse, was, that at the first sight of
-      Ramona, Alessandro snatched his hand from Margarita's, and tried to draw
-      farther off from her, looking at her with an expression which, even in her
-      anger, Ramona could not help seeing was one of disgust and repulsion. And
-      if Ramona saw it, how much more did Margarita! Saw it, as only a woman
-      repulsed in presence of another woman can see and feel. The whole thing
-      was over in the twinkling of an eye; the telling it takes double, treble
-      the time of the happening. Before Alessandro was fairly aware what had
-      befallen, Ramona and Margarita were disappearing from view under the
-      garden trellis,&mdash;Ramona walking in advance, stately, silent, and
-      Margarita following, sulky, abject in her gait, but with a raging
-      whirlwind in her heart.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the
-      truth. Alessandro too.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My God.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the Senorita thought me making love to that girl. May
-      the fiends get her! The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How
-      could she think a man would look at a woman after he had once seen her!
-      And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! Oh, this cannot be
-      borne!&rdquo; And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling
-      through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old
-      olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place. How
-      could he ever look the Senorita in the face again!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perdition take that girl!&rdquo; he said over and over in his helpless despair.
-      An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not deserved it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen
-      Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special harm,
-      except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with him,&mdash;for
-      she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone a little
-      farther,&mdash;had not let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next second
-      she had seen in his face a look; oh, she would never forget it, never!
-      That she should live to have had any man look at her like that! At the
-      first glimpse of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed rushing
-      into his face, and he had snatched his hand away,&mdash;for it was
-      Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,&mdash;had snatched
-      his hand away, and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All
-      this might have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's
-      seeing them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal
-      better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, appealing,
-      worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes rested on Ramona, was
-      like a flash of light into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than
-      Alessandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her first rage she did not
-      realize either the gulf between herself and Ramona, or that between Ramona
-      and Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had all been
-      equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was embodied
-      insolence in the tone in which she said presently, &ldquo;Did the Senorita want
-      me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said: &ldquo;I
-      saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I knew
-      that you were at the brook last night with Alessandro. All I wanted of you
-      was, to tell you that if I see anything more of this sort, I shall speak
-      to the Senora.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is no harm,&rdquo; muttered Margarita, sullenly. &ldquo;I don't know what the
-      Senorita means.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know very well, Margarita,&rdquo; retorted Ramona. &ldquo;You know that the
-      Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do.&rdquo; And
-      with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her
-      embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good
-      Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's
-      would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words which
-      were being spoken on the veranda a little later.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate
-      generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded
-      himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the
-      time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had
-      just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner
-      had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house,
-      hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her time
-      when not with Senor Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in her
-      embroidery. She did not wish to look at him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would
-      not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not
-      know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the
-      consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and
-      surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval of
-      freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the passion
-      of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the sun's rays.
-      Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she sprang to her
-      feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a long
-      time to speak to her. I wished to say&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to say.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But she
-      spoke not, only looked at him searchingly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita,&rdquo; he began again, &ldquo;I would never be unfaithful to my duty to the
-      Senora, and to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I believe you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;It is not necessary to say
-      more.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not
-      hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him. He
-      felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people.
-      &ldquo;It is well.&rdquo; And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked away.
-      Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father Salvierderra's
-      room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover to whom he was
-      speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind a curtain, she saw
-      the look with which he said them; saw also the expression on Ramona's face
-      as she listened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an enemy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!&rdquo; said the girl, bitterly.
-      &ldquo;He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I haven't got to
-      confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in that time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Much, indeed!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      VIII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra
-      had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with little
-      apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was almost
-      harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every day
-      Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the only
-      thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he would
-      talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show for a few
-      moments something like his old animation; but he was soon tired, and would
-      close his eyes, saying: &ldquo;I will speak with you again about this,
-      Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon came
-      to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly liked
-      his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's favor,
-      for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved in demeanor. She
-      had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent, self-contained,
-      mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed Alessandro, the more
-      she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how
-      matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he would have been
-      in a fever of apprehension, and would have got at swords' points with
-      Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all unaware of the real situation
-      of affairs, and never quite sure that the Mexican he dreaded might not any
-      day hear of his misfortune, and appear, asking for the place, he took
-      every opportunity to praise Alessandro to the Senora. She never visited
-      his bedside that he had not something to say in favor of the lad, as he
-      called him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Truly, Senora,&rdquo; he said again and again, &ldquo;I do marvel where the lad got
-      so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep
-      business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,&mdash;a deal more; and
-      it is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of
-      cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for a
-      remedy of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I knew not that
-      there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I fancy not,&rdquo; the Senora would reply, absently. &ldquo;His father is a man
-      of intelligence, and has trained his son well.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is nothing he is not ready to do,&rdquo; continued Alessandro's eulogist.
-      &ldquo;He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a carpenter. He
-      has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief like salve to a
-      wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good lad,&mdash;a good
-      lad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and
-      more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan had
-      feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his
-      temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working in
-      the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this young,
-      strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ. The
-      possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would hesitate
-      about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, did not
-      occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty
-      of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the young man
-      more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the idea, and
-      propose it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So one day she said to Felipe: &ldquo;What a voice that Alessandro has, Felipe.
-      We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He's not going!&rdquo; exclaimed Felipe, startled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was about
-      again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I suppose.
-      You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here ill, my son.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;True, true!&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Is it really a month already?&rdquo; and he sighed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of his
-      years,&rdquo; continued the Senora. &ldquo;He says he is as skilled with cattle as
-      with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He seems
-      wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had such
-      behavior.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Old Pablo is just like him,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;It was natural enough, living
-      so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with a good
-      deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you
-      will be well and strong,&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;you would not miss him then,
-      would you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I would, too!&rdquo; said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to
-      be childish. &ldquo;I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as any
-      man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on any
-      ranch.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?&rdquo; asked the Senora, in a
-      surprised tone. &ldquo;I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are all
-      poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not poor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, it isn't that,&rdquo; said Felipe, impatiently. &ldquo;You can't understand,
-      because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we
-      are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They shear sheep for
-      money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference.
-      Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village obey
-      Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith, much more so!&rdquo;
-       added Felipe, laughing. &ldquo;You can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I
-      am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to tempt
-      him to stay here as my servant.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. &ldquo;No, I do not understand it,&rdquo; she
-      said. &ldquo;Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that these
-      noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,&mdash;naked savages
-      less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves too, to-day,
-      if we had not come here to teach and civilize them. The race was never
-      meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers ever expected to
-      make of them,&mdash;good, faithful Catholics, and contented laborers in
-      the fields. Of course there are always exceptional instances, and I think,
-      myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe, however, he is so exceptional,
-      but that if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wages you pay
-      Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of staying on the place.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I shall think about it,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;I'd like nothing better than
-      to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think about
-      it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing
-      Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but
-      listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with Ramona,
-      though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done this much,&mdash;that
-      Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and
-      that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any more than when she
-      thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the
-      two men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita had
-      done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man of the two.
-      This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not help it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,&rdquo; she said to herself
-      many a time. &ldquo;I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder if the
-      Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis
-      money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips
-      suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. She
-      had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations
-      between her and her son.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after his
-      mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the point
-      of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, &ldquo;What was it, Ramona,
-      you were going to say just now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Tell me, Ramona,&rdquo; persisted Felipe. &ldquo;You were going to say something
-      about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself
-      embarrassed before Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don't you like Alessandro?&rdquo; said Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. &ldquo;It was not that at
-      all. I like him very much;&rdquo; But then she stopped.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his
-      staying?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, no; not a word!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Everybody understands that he is
-      here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you
-      could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Felipe, inquiringly, &ldquo;I do not. Do you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think he would like to stay,&rdquo; said Ramona, hesitatingly. &ldquo;That was what
-      I was going to say.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What makes you think so?&rdquo; asked Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had
-      said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like
-      this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not characteristic
-      of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion or
-      jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went through Felipe's mind,&mdash;went
-      through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if he had been, he
-      would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian sheep-shearers
-      Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a trace, and
-      prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and after this, it
-      was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely than he had
-      done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should seem by a shade
-      altered in either, would watch still more closely. Meshes were closing
-      around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and act,&mdash;Alessandro
-      in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love and perplexity.
-      Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, matters might have turned
-      out very differently, for the Senora was clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in
-      her reading of people's motives, never long deceived; but her observing
-      and discriminating powers were not in focus, so far as Ramona was
-      concerned. The girl was curiously outside of the Senora's real life.
-      Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in so far as her means
-      allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for the child her sister
-      had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal relation with her, a
-      mother's affection, or even interest and acquaintance, no. The Senora had
-      not that to give. And if she had it not, was she to blame? What could she
-      do? Years ago Father Salvierderra had left off remonstrating with her on
-      this point. &ldquo;Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see aught
-      lacking, aught amiss?&rdquo; the Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with
-      pride. And the Father, thus inquired of, could not point out a duty which
-      had been neglected.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You do not love her, my daughter,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo; Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. &ldquo;No, I do
-      not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; the Father would say sadly; &ldquo;but affection may be
-      cultivated.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, if it exists,&rdquo; was the Senora's constant answer. &ldquo;But in this case
-      it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and to
-      save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, &ldquo;Be cast into the sea,&rdquo; as
-      try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of
-      itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona the
-      more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year, and
-      small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath than
-      this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in
-      the Senora Moreno's house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that fourth
-      herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how should Ramona
-      watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at school with the
-      nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house. Felipe was the only
-      young man she had known,&mdash;Felipe, her brother since she was five
-      years old.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he needed
-      them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went as often
-      as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed to go to
-      Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have asked the
-      Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now infrequent
-      journeys to these places would have required more courage than Ramona
-      possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent school, but
-      she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the day when, with
-      loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few romances and tales
-      and bits of verse she had read were of the most innocent and old-fashioned
-      kind, and left her hardly less childlike than before. This childlikeness,
-      combined with her happy temperament, had kept her singularly contented in
-      her monotonous life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers,
-      kept the chapel in order, helped in light household work, embroidered,
-      sung, and, as the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said her
-      prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept
-      strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,&mdash;he by living
-      in the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled
-      with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light and
-      easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro
-      meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing
-      or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him
-      uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was
-      never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room,
-      and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,&rdquo;
-       said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. &ldquo;Do you think I should anger them if
-      I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put him
-      on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in a
-      week.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the estate,
-      and get it, lad,&rdquo; replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening in
-      Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, &ldquo;Do not be so
-      hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I was
-      only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe on
-      his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not get up
-      from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is but for
-      him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case, I have
-      never been able to find out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Would it not be the Senorita?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. &ldquo;Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say
-      that!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more than
-      enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye,
-      Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the
-      Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of
-      theirs.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;Margarita has said to me that the Senorita Ramona
-      was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Foster-child!&rdquo; repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, &ldquo;there is something to
-      the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in Monterey
-      the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any of their
-      people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna that had the
-      girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale about her birth.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have seen
-      that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his words more
-      carefully. But he went on: &ldquo;It was after the Senora Ortegna was buried,
-      that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and I do assure
-      you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as if she wished
-      her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair and good a child
-      as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood,
-      lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know, her mother was an
-      Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big Saint Joseph there,
-      I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking to Father
-      Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one blood in her
-      veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses with Indians.'&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word &ldquo;Indian&rdquo; have
-      bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than
-      before, and said in a low voice, &ldquo;How know you it was the mother that was
-      the Indian?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan laughed again, maliciously: &ldquo;Ha, it is the Ortegna face she has; and
-      that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the whole coast. There was
-      not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except for his wife's sake.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that the
-      child was?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each moment now;
-      stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip, that he noticed
-      nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, ay. So I said,&rdquo; he went on; &ldquo;and so it was. There be such saints, you
-      know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter to all
-      her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to hold
-      them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant and
-      leaving it in the Senora's room; and she, poor lady, never having had a
-      child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with her to
-      the last; and I wager me, a hard time she had to get our Senora to take
-      the child when she died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I think our
-      Senora would as soon the child had been dead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Has she not treated her kindly?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, in a husky voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan Can's pride resented this question. &ldquo;Do you suppose the Senora Moreno
-      would do an unkindness to one under her roof?&rdquo; he asked loftily. &ldquo;The
-      Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself. It was
-      so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Does the Senorita know all this?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Juan Can crossed himself. &ldquo;Saints save us, no!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I'll not
-      forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing,
-      when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she went to the
-      Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had said her mother was
-      no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora came to me,
-      and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house; but if
-      ever I hear of your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita Ramona, on
-      this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you leave my
-      service!'&mdash;And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it,
-      Alessandro, now?&rdquo; said the old man, anxiously. &ldquo;My tongue runs away with
-      me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,&mdash;an active man
-      like me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured,&rdquo; said Alessandro, walking
-      away slowly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here! Here!&rdquo; called Juan. &ldquo;What about that plan you had for making a bed
-      for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, I had forgotten,&rdquo; said Alessandro, returning. &ldquo;Yes, that was it.
-      There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says that
-      it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the Mission days. I
-      myself like the ground even better; but my father sleeps always on the
-      rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of it to
-      the Senora?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself,&rdquo; said Juan. &ldquo;It will be as he says.
-      He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but yesterday I
-      held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to the wall,
-      Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nay, Juan Canito,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, kindly. &ldquo;It is not so. My father
-      is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as firmly
-      as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?&rdquo; thought Juan;
-      but he answered, &ldquo;It is not so with us. The old are not held in such
-      reverence.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is not well,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;We have been taught differently.
-      There is an old man in our village who is many, many years older than my
-      father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of the San Diego
-      Mission, I do not know how many years ago. He is long past a hundred years
-      of age. He is blind and childish, and cannot walk; but he is cared for by
-      every one. And we bring him in our arms to every council, and set him by
-      my father's side. He talks very foolishly sometimes, but my father will
-      not let him be interrupted. He says it brings bad luck to affront the
-      aged. We will presently be aged ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, ay!&rdquo; said Juan, sadly. &ldquo;We must all come to it. It is beginning to
-      look not so far off to me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious revelation
-      of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been at his. &ldquo;Faith,
-      old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!&rdquo; he thought; but went on
-      with the topic of the raw-hide bed. &ldquo;I may not so soon get speech with
-      Senor Felipe,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It is usually when he is sleepy that I go to play
-      for him or to sing. But it makes my heart heavy to see him thus
-      languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and the sun, I do
-      believe, indeed, Juan.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ask the Senorita, then,&rdquo; said Juan. &ldquo;She has his ear at all times.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,&mdash;this
-      suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He
-      could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will speak to the Senora,&rdquo; he said; and as luck would have it, at that
-      moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan Can's
-      health.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself had,
-      in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she
-      said, &ldquo;they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday that Senor
-      Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; and when he was well, he
-      thought nothing could be so good; he brought it here, at a great price,
-      for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would throw me off
-      as soon as I lay down; it is a cheating device, like all these innovations
-      the Americans have brought into the country. But Senor Felipe till now
-      thought it a luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is throwing him all
-      the time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. &ldquo;I once lay
-      down on one myself, Senora,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and that was what I said to my
-      father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck. I
-      thought perhaps the invention was of the saints, that men should not sleep
-      too long.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is a pile of raw-hides,&rdquo; said Juan, &ldquo;well cured, but not too stiff;
-      Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of those will
-      be just right. It must not be too dry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The fresher the better,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;so it have no dampness. Shall
-      I make the bed, Senora?&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;and will the Senora permit that I make
-      it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought I might be so
-      bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor Felipe into the outer air. With
-      us, it is thought death to be shut up in walls, as he has been so long.
-      Not till we are sure to die, do we go into the dark like that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor of
-      fresh air.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Night and day both?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Surely it is not well to sleep out in the
-      night?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is the best of all, Senora,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, earnestly. &ldquo;I beg
-      the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly after the
-      first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, only mistaken,&rdquo; said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly
-      drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe. &ldquo;When
-      I die and leave Felipe here,&rdquo; she had more than once said to herself, &ldquo;it
-      would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this on the place.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very well, Alessandro,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;make the bed, and we will try it at
-      once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west, when
-      Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw Alessandro
-      coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What can that be?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Some new invention of Alessandro's, but for
-      what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita,&rdquo; said Alessandro, running lightly
-      up the steps. &ldquo;The Senora has given permission to place it here on the
-      veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; and it will be a
-      marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room which
-      is keeping him weak now; he has no illness.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I believe that is the truth, Alessandro,&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona; &ldquo;I have been
-      thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but an
-      hour, and when I come here I am well. But the nights too, Alessandro? Is
-      it not harmful to sleep out in the night air?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, Senorita?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, simply.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And Ramona had no answer, except, &ldquo;I do not know; I have always heard so.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My people do not think so,&rdquo; replied Alessandro; &ldquo;unless it is cold, we
-      like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I should think it would be,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;I never thought of it. I
-      should like to do it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in a
-      sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona would
-      have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than the one she
-      had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with Margarita. All
-      day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain a confused
-      procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words, they would have
-      been found to be little more than ringing changes on this idea: &ldquo;The
-      Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Senorita Ramona is
-      alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian blood!&rdquo; These, or
-      something like them, would have been the words; but Alessandro did not put
-      them in words. He only worked away on the rough posts for Senor Felipe's
-      bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the raw-hide and made it tight and
-      firm, driving every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of
-      exultant strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven
-      and a new earth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, &ldquo;It
-      must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it,&rdquo; these vague
-      confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant
-      strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,&mdash;a
-      vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up
-      to them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, &ldquo;There, Senorita!
-      That is all firm, now. If Senor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, he
-      will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, &ldquo;The bed is all ready on the
-      veranda,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression of
-      gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive
-      nature far worse than anger. &ldquo;I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the
-      change, Ramona,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I supposed that Alessandro would have informed
-      me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly. Felipe is
-      still very weak, you see.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it? What is it?&rdquo; exclaimed Felipe, impatiently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to be
-      moved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's just what I needed!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;This cursed bed racks every
-      bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty
-      man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro,&rdquo; he went on, seeing
-      Alessandro in the doorway. &ldquo;Come here, and take me up in those long arms
-      of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light
-      burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than
-      Alessandro to lift.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets.
-      As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her
-      hands, saying, &ldquo;I will arrange them myself;&rdquo; and waved Ramona away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would
-      have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were
-      not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears at
-      the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked swiftly
-      away, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but too
-      well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his
-      weakness, was, &ldquo;Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he
-      stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up,
-      half afraid.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?&rdquo; he said smiling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is not your weight, Senor Felipe,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, off guard,
-      still trembling, his eyes following Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met.
-      Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at
-      Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head
-      sink back into the pillow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is that comfortable? Is that right?&rdquo; asked the Senora, who had seen
-      nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Stay,
-      Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has
-      shaken me up a good deal. Wait.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda steps.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you are to stay, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the Senora, &ldquo;I will go and look
-      after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about
-      Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senora,&rdquo; said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had
-      been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant. In
-      fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind whether
-      there could be any possibility of his getting away before the expiration
-      of the time for which he had agreed to stay.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he
-      was asleep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some
-      minutes. &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did
-      not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had
-      seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro was
-      preparing for anything.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;my mother has been speaking to me about your
-      remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this
-      accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor soul! We are in
-      great need of some man who understands sheep, and the care of the place
-      generally.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing
-      expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood
-      the surprise. &ldquo;I knew you would be surprised,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I told my mother
-      that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only because we
-      were in trouble.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave
-      him pleasure.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was not
-      for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can earn.
-      Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether my father would
-      think I ought to take the place you offer me, or not, Senor. It would be
-      as he said. I will ask him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then you would be willing to take it?&rdquo; asked Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it,&rdquo; replied Alessandro,
-      looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's pause,
-      &ldquo;if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a pleasure
-      to me to be of help to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning
-      over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service
-      immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse of
-      passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden
-      consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro
-      was not mistaken.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      IX
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep,
-      Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his
-      breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the
-      same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to
-      Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can go now, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;I will sit here. You are
-      quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all night?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It will cure him before many nights,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, still without
-      raising his eyes, and turning to go.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; said the Senora. Alessandro paused. &ldquo;It will not do for him to be
-      alone here in the night, Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on the
-      veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the
-      Senorita's window.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I will lie here by his side. That was what I
-      had thought, if the Senora is willing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the Senora, in a tone which would have
-      surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes. She
-      did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any one but Felipe.
-      &ldquo;Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no.&rdquo; cried Alessandro; &ldquo;if the Senora will excuse me, I could not lie
-      on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I want.
-      I could not lie on any bed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; thought the Senora; &ldquo;what was I thinking of! How the boy
-      makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the ground,
-      Alessandro,&rdquo; she said kindly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep. I
-      will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should wake
-      and need something.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will watch him myself till midnight,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;I should feel
-      easier to see how he sleeps at first.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing
-      were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and
-      on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from her
-      window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him
-      spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take her
-      place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were both
-      going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit up and
-      watch with Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am not of any use to anybody,&rdquo; she thought sadly. She dared not go out
-      and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At supper the
-      Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant manner which
-      always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen Felipe alone during
-      the day. Margarita, who, in the former times,&mdash;ah, how far away those
-      former times looked now!&mdash;had been a greater comfort to Ramona than
-      she realized,&mdash;Margarita now was sulky and silent, never came into
-      Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her sometimes with
-      an expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to herself, &ldquo;She hates
-      me; She has always hated me since that morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window
-      leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up and
-      down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in any
-      wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved her.
-      More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go. Her mind was
-      not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in intercourse with
-      men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro loved her, and
-      distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she was, as she sat at
-      her window this night, looking out into the moonlit garden; after she had
-      gone to bed, she could still hear his slow, regular steps on the
-      garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was that
-      she was glad Alessandro loved her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines,
-      were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in
-      her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low,
-      regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to it
-      for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the
-      window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; but
-      it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; without a
-      sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's window.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am here, Senorita,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;Do you want anything?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Has he slept all night like this?&rdquo; she whispered back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How good!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;How good!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear him
-      speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she could not,
-      she gave a little sigh.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. &ldquo;May the saints bless
-      you, Senorita,&rdquo; he whispered fervently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank you, Alessandro,&rdquo; murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed, but
-      not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light
-      filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe,&rdquo; thought Ramona;
-      and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words between the
-      Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed again, and all
-      was still.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I thought she would not have the heart to wake him,&rdquo; said Ramona to
-      herself. &ldquo;The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure;
-      but I will say a prayer to her instead;&rdquo; and she sank on her knees at the
-      head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall of a
-      spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the ear of
-      that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose from the
-      floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness was so far
-      softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen. Ramona felt
-      it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was sure he had
-      heard her voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did the Senorita speak?&rdquo; he whispered, his face close at the curtain.
-      Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the
-      wooden floor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I did not speak.&rdquo; And she trembled, she
-      knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to Alessandro
-      what had been the whispered words he heard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She was at her prayers,&rdquo; he thought, ashamed and sorry. &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; he
-      whispered, &ldquo;I thought you called;&rdquo; and he stepped back to the outer edge
-      of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie down no
-      more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window. Through the
-      transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly, steadily, till
-      at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful of all else, she
-      knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Ramona would
-      not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart was full of thanksgiving
-      and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the book.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the
-      veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The Senora
-      had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but he stirred
-      not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro only long
-      enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding
-      her breath, he lay so still.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ought he to sleep so long?&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Till the noon, it may be,&rdquo; answered Alessandro; &ldquo;and when he wakes, you
-      will see by his eye that he is another man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed outright
-      with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the steps, he
-      called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him, &ldquo;Alessandro,
-      you are a famous physician. Why couldn't that fool from Ventura have known
-      as much? With all his learning, he had had me in the next world before
-      many days, except for you. Now, Alessandro, breakfast! I'm hungry. I had
-      forgotten what the thought of food was like to a hungry stomach. And
-      plenty! plenty!&rdquo; he called, as Alessandro ran toward the kitchen. &ldquo;Bring
-      all they have.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright, his
-      color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self, she stood
-      like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then turning to
-      Alessandro, she said chokingly, &ldquo;May Heaven reward you!&rdquo; and disappeared
-      abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes were red. All day
-      she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed inconceivable. She
-      even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She felt like one
-      brought back from the dead.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on the
-      veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The servants
-      came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk below.
-      Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches Alessandro had
-      made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way round the house,
-      to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The Senora sat there,
-      in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her black silk banded
-      head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her large dark eyes
-      gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona lived there too,
-      with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on the floor in a
-      corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed, however,&mdash;if
-      anybody had noticed, but nobody did,&mdash;so placed that she could look
-      at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if the Senora
-      were not in it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Here also came Alessandro many times a day,&mdash;sometimes sent for,
-      sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or sang
-      he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden. He also
-      had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the positions he
-      chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot which best
-      commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own. Felipe knew
-      it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell exploding at
-      their feet would not have more astonished the different members of this
-      circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would to have been made
-      suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in Felipe's mind now,
-      from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at them all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when
-      the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and that
-      Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled with
-      jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he was
-      prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die; it did
-      not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and ever again
-      be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of his own death,
-      always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of her, if he were
-      gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would be broken; that
-      she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe adored his mother; but
-      he understood her feeling about Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in long
-      illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to puzzle
-      him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into his eyes
-      meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him, had always
-      loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a little at
-      himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet, mournful
-      tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going out of the
-      world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new quality was
-      coming into his love for her. He himself was returning to the brother love
-      which he had had for her when they were children together, and in which he
-      had felt no change until he became a man and Ramona a woman. It was
-      strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this was finally clear and
-      settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more misgiving and fear about his
-      mother in the matter than he had ever admitted to himself; perhaps also
-      the consciousness of Ramona's unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but
-      all this was past now. Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What
-      course should he pursue in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could
-      he best help Ramona? What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long
-      before the thought of any possible union between himself and Ramona had
-      entered into Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into
-      Ramona's to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in
-      forecasting, plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his
-      life he felt himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That
-      any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence
-      her, he knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was
-      concerned, Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless
-      beggar, and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the
-      adopted daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had
-      lived as foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit
-      such a one to marry an Indian?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more he
-      watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be decided.
-      Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for forestalling
-      trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature indolent, and
-      now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. It was
-      exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him; his
-      mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was
-      always at hand, ready for any service,&mdash;in the field, in the house,&mdash;his
-      music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his personal presence
-      always agreeable. &ldquo;If only my mother could think it,&rdquo; reflected Felipe,
-      &ldquo;it would be the best thing, all round, to have Alessandro stay here as
-      overseer of the place, and then they might be married. Perhaps before the
-      summer is over she will come to see it so.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the
-      valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes filled
-      and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied vines.
-      The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but there were
-      lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and geraniums in
-      the pots, and musk,&mdash;oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was like an
-      enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping relays of
-      musk to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an enchanter's
-      spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.' But the bees
-      liked it, and the humming-birds,&mdash;the butterflies also; and the air
-      was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the season's noon
-      grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches and the canaries
-      too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly feeding the
-      mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their thickest; no need
-      any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up that first morning
-      to keep the sun off Felipe's head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot as this?
-      &ldquo;To-morrow,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;I will speak to my mother,&rdquo; and &ldquo;to-morrow,&rdquo;
-       and &ldquo;to-morrow;&rdquo; but he did not.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe
-      knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about
-      her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the
-      watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge was
-      going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be as it
-      fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come she
-      never doubted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening to
-      Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his ease
-      and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger was
-      almost beyond bounds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!&rdquo; she sneered. &ldquo;It is new
-      times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house,
-      and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We shall see; we
-      shall see what comes of all this!&rdquo; And she knew not which she hated the
-      more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken to
-      Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At first
-      Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her. As soon
-      as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in the esteem
-      of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. &ldquo;A man should not be rude
-      to any maiden,&rdquo; he thought; and he hated to remember how he had pushed
-      Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away, when he had in the outset
-      made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's resentment was not to
-      be appeased. She understood only too clearly how little Alessandro's
-      gentle advances meant, and she would none of them. &ldquo;Let him go to his
-      Senorita,&rdquo; she said bitterly, mocking the reverential tone in which she
-      had overheard him pronounce the word. &ldquo;She is fond enough of him, if only
-      the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to throw herself at his head
-      before long, if this kind of thing keeps up. 'It is not well to speak thus
-      freely of young men, Margarita!' Ha, ha! Little I thought that day which
-      way the wind set in my mistress's temper! I'll wager she reproves me no
-      more, under this roof or any other! Curse her! What did she want of
-      Alessandro, except to turn his head, and then bid him go his way!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of
-      Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more or
-      less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any one of
-      the shepherds,&mdash;this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry
-      imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro.
-      There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of such
-      a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that idea
-      would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to
-      Margarita.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not
-      know. The girl was always like a sprite,&mdash;here, there, everywhere, in
-      an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all
-      sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved
-      swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of
-      any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and
-      Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had
-      not either seen or surmised.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not strange
-      that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved untiring
-      vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought himself, from his
-      vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from his familiar relation
-      with Ramona, well informed of most that happened, would have been
-      astonished to hear all that Margarita could have told him. In the first
-      days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him much,&mdash;had told him how
-      Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and bathe and keep alive the
-      green ferns with which she had decorated the chapel for Father
-      Salvierderra's coming, had said: &ldquo;Oh, Senorita, they are dead! Do not take
-      trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;&rdquo; and the next morning she
-      had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of such ferns as she had never
-      before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes, six and eight feet high; the
-      feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as
-      she ever had found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a conservatory,
-      after she had arranged them in vases and around the high candlesticks.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all of
-      the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the
-      cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think it
-      prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made wreaths
-      of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers which
-      ever were made,&mdash;great soft round disks of fine straight threads like
-      silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff points,
-      glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the strangest thing
-      in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay there on the ground.
-      She had put a great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and a bunch
-      in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora saw them, she exclaimed in
-      admiration, and thought they must have been made of silk and satin.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian women
-      at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare country;
-      it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,&mdash;red and yellow, in
-      alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a
-      bright-colored bird.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black, that
-      came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got it.
-      For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed that there
-      was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and
-      good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that Alessandro had said,&mdash;tales
-      of the old Mission days that he had heard from his father; stories of
-      saints, and of the early Fathers, who were more like saints than like men,
-      Alessandro said,&mdash;Father Junipero, who founded the first Missions,
-      and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's grandfather had journeyed with
-      Father Crespi as his servant, and many a miracle he had with his own eyes
-      seen Father Crespi perform. There was a cup out of which the Father always
-      took his chocolate for breakfast,&mdash;a beautiful cup, which was carried
-      in a box, the only luxury the Father had; and one morning it was broken,
-      and everybody was in terror and despair. &ldquo;Never mind, never mind,&rdquo; said
-      the Father; &ldquo;I will make it whole;&rdquo; and taking the two pieces in his
-      hands, he held them tight together, and prayed over them, and they became
-      one solid piece again, and it was used all through the journey, just as
-      before.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's
-      sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief
-      replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another
-      thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to others
-      she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she looked quickly
-      up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance. Alessandro also
-      observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He knew how
-      differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when they were
-      alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he was mistaken.
-      Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows by
-      the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened, it
-      was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went often
-      seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not avowed,
-      but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him there, at
-      least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a pleasant spot,&mdash;cool
-      and shady even at noon, and the running water always full of music. Ramona
-      often knelt there of a morning, washing out a bit of lace or a
-      handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went hard with him to stay
-      away. At such moments the vision returned to him vividly of that first
-      night when, for the first second, seeing her face in the sunset glow, he
-      had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that he even now thought her
-      less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to be human! He had gone alone
-      in the dark to this spot many a time, and, lying on the grass, put his
-      hands into the running water, and played with it dreamily, thinking, in
-      his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like these: &ldquo;Whither have gone the
-      drops that passed beneath her hands, just here? These drops will never
-      find those in the sea; but I love this water!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined
-      sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it,
-      thinking to herself: &ldquo;He hopes his Senorita will come down to him there. A
-      nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover, at the washing-stones! It
-      will take swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ramona, to wash
-      you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever she come upon you there with the
-      head shepherd, making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that could only
-      happen, I'd die content!&rdquo; And the more Margarita watched, the more she
-      thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was oftener at the
-      willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro met; and, as
-      Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked each time
-      longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it had happened
-      to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on the garden-walk,
-      had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be ordered to call the
-      Senorita to supper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did to me,
-      'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul good! I'd say
-      it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! It will come!
-      It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one of these fine
-      times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      X
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's
-      most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It was
-      the Senora herself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his
-      chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, the
-      Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of long,
-      lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants, that
-      there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had not seen.
-      She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose in walking over
-      it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she could afford to
-      sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they greatly desired to
-      buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This bit of land lay
-      farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it had taken more
-      time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was already sunset
-      on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned off from the highway
-      into the same shortcut path in which Father Salvierderra had met Ramona in
-      the spring. There was no difficulty now in getting through the mustard
-      tangle. It was parched and dry, and had been trampled by cattle. The
-      Senora walked rapidly, but it was dusky twilight when she reached the
-      willows; so dusky that she saw nothing&mdash;and she stepped so lightly on
-      the smooth brown path that she made no sound&mdash;until suddenly, face to
-      face with a man and a woman standing locked in each other's arms, she
-      halted, stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same
-      second, recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart,
-      each gazing into her face with terror.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had
-      stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; she began.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Silence! Shameful creature!&rdquo; cried the Senora. &ldquo;Do not dare to speak! Go
-      to your room!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona did not move.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As for you,&rdquo; the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, &ldquo;you,&rdquo;&mdash;she
-      was about to say, &ldquo;You are discharged from my service from this hour,&rdquo; but
-      recollecting herself in time, said,&mdash;&ldquo;you will answer to Senor
-      Felipe. Out of my sight!&rdquo; And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in her
-      life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. &ldquo;Out of my
-      sight!&rdquo; she repeated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring
-      look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no idea
-      what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Go, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in
-      the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had
-      walked away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her
-      own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A
-      wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of
-      her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; the Senora did a
-      shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Speak not to me!&rdquo; she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she pushed
-      rather than dragged her up the garden-walk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senora, you hurt my arm,&rdquo; said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. &ldquo;You
-      need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and stared
-      in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it an
-      expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would have
-      thought it capable. &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; thought the Senora, still weak,
-      and trembling all over, from rage. &ldquo;The hussy, the hypocrite!&rdquo; and she
-      seized the arm again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like a
-      prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and locked
-      on the outside.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona and
-      Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with impatience
-      at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had gone to Felipe,
-      and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the
-      Senorita would not have their supper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no, not till the Senora returns,&rdquo; Felipe had answered. He, too,
-      happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew also
-      where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he did not
-      know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of the willows
-      at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to summon
-      Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling
-      Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's
-      pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch.
-      Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona
-      had helped her in times gone by,&mdash;sheltered her from the Senora's
-      displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. &ldquo;Holy Virgin! what will
-      be done to her now?&rdquo; she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita had never
-      conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp reprimand,
-      and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro,&mdash;this was all
-      Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora looked
-      as if she might kill her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She always did hate her, in her heart,&rdquo; reflected Margarita; &ldquo;she shan't
-      starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. But it must
-      have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought her to such a
-      pass as this;&rdquo; and Margarita's jealousy again got the better of her
-      sympathy. &ldquo;Good enough for her. No more than she deserved. An honest
-      fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any girl!&rdquo;
-       Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's view
-      and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from above,
-      and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they were both
-      equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a disgraceful
-      intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of conjecturing or
-      of believing the truth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As ill luck would have it,&mdash;or was it good luck?&mdash;Felipe also
-      had witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked
-      out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had
-      seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,&mdash;Ramona pale,
-      but strangely placid; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The
-      sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand, he
-      groaned out: &ldquo;Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come on
-      them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!&rdquo; And Felipe threw
-      himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he heard his
-      mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained silent, sure
-      she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, seeing him on
-      the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, &ldquo;Felipe, dear, are you ill?&rdquo; he
-      replied in a feeble voice, &ldquo;No, mother, only tired a little to-night;&rdquo; and
-      as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw his arms around her neck
-      and kissed her warmly. &ldquo;Mother mia!&rdquo; he said passionately, &ldquo;what should I
-      do without you?&rdquo; The caress, the loving words, acted like oil on the
-      troubled waters. They restored the Senora as nothing else could. What
-      mattered anything, so long as she had her adoring and adorable son! And
-      she would not speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this disgraceful
-      and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could wait till morning. She would
-      send him his supper in his room, and he would not miss Ramona, perhaps.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will send your supper here, Felipe,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you must not overdo;
-      you have been walking too much. Lie still.&rdquo; And kissing him
-      affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly
-      trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve
-      supper. When the Senora entered, with her countenance composed, and in her
-      ordinary tones said, &ldquo;Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper into
-      his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,&rdquo; Margarita
-      was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she, or
-      had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, shaking and
-      speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her room, and lock her
-      up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at the
-      Senora, with her mouth wide open.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What are you staring at, girl?&rdquo; asked the Senora, so sharply that
-      Margarita jumped.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to supper?
-      Shall I call her?&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora Moreno
-      was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no matter what
-      she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should treat her with
-      disrespect, or know that aught was wrong.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The Senorita is not well,&rdquo; she said coldly. &ldquo;She is in her room. I myself
-      will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb her.&rdquo;
-       And the Senora returned to Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had
-      spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those
-      two short hours how much had happened!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon,&rdquo; said the
-      bitter Margarita, &ldquo;and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how
-      he will carry himself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen.
-      The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock, and
-      no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the places
-      where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro was not to be
-      found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he thought he was
-      discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace,
-      and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium clump at the
-      chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees drawn up to his chin,
-      watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night. He felt
-      that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, she would either open her
-      window and call, or would come out and go down through the garden-walk to
-      the willows. In either case, he would see her from the hiding-place he had
-      chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad with joy one minute, sick at
-      heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She
-      had said she would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but
-      just passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared in
-      their presence. As he lived the scene over again, he re-experienced the
-      joy and the terror equally.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look at
-      him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the
-      Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing for
-      her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's mind,
-      that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as she did,
-      in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona? Could she
-      live in a house such as he must live in,&mdash;live as the Temecula women
-      lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some town,
-      must do&mdash;he knew not what&mdash;something to earn more money. Anguish
-      seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The
-      more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and
-      his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his, to
-      look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone on
-      loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,&mdash;now, in a
-      moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had
-      spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had
-      put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed
-      her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had been
-      glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden kisses a man
-      unless she will wed with him,&mdash;him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the
-      man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering,
-      afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, in the very instant of their
-      first kiss,&mdash;wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who
-      had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a
-      Moreno!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his friend,
-      Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's instinct
-      for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora? Oh, that
-      terrible Senora! What would become of them?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the
-      whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's
-      love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act
-      of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which she
-      had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the time of
-      Felipe's fall, &ldquo;You are Alessandro, are you not?&rdquo; He heard again her
-      soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. He
-      recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner; the
-      evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without food.
-      &ldquo;O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?&rdquo; he said.
-      And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her forever. Then
-      he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago, when he first
-      told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She had said, &ldquo;I know
-      you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it,&rdquo; and had lifted her eyes to
-      his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry; and when he threw
-      his arms around her, she had of her own accord come closer, and laid one
-      hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his. Ah, what else mattered!
-      There was the whole world; if she loved him like this, nothing could make
-      them wretched; his love would be enough for her,&mdash;and for him hers
-      was an empire.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have
-      believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken between
-      Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first moment of
-      unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first caresses, are
-      so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at the instant, than
-      there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. Alessandro had been
-      speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard
-      to remaining on the place, and asked her if she knew of the plan.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some
-      days ago.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was she against my staying?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, quickly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think not,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;but I am not sure. It is not easy to be sure
-      what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the
-      Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not understand, Senorita,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;What do you mean by
-      'afterward'?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; replied Ramona, &ldquo;that the Senora never says she wishes anything;
-      she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to Father
-      Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes to have it,
-      after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you think so?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She loves Senor Felipe very much,&rdquo; was Alessandro's evasive reply.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona. &ldquo;You do not begin to know how much. She does
-      not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any left. If
-      he had died, she would have died too. That is the reason she likes you so
-      much; she thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that is one reason,&rdquo;
-       added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at Alessandro, who
-      smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that the Senorita was
-      pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the Senora's regard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not think she likes me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I cannot tell why; but I do not
-      think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I ever saw,
-      Senorita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Ramona, thoughtfully. &ldquo;She is not. I am, oh, so afraid of
-      her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little girl. I
-      used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care one way or
-      the other, if I keep out of her way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running water
-      at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in Alessandro's
-      eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would have drawn
-      near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did not look up.
-      She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and looked
-      at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself in, and be
-      carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin, Father
-      Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the next morning,
-      when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been glad enough I had not
-      done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senorita, never,&rdquo; replied Alessandro; &ldquo;and it is thought a great
-      disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it. But,
-      oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will you
-      always be so? Must you always stay here?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, but I am not always unhappy!&rdquo; said Ramona, with her sunny little
-      laugh. &ldquo;Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that
-      if one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that it is a sin not to
-      rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work there is
-      to do; and there is always plenty of that.&rdquo; Then, her face clouding, she
-      continued: &ldquo;I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no other home; you
-      know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died when I was
-      little, and the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra says I must
-      never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for me, and I try
-      not to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to
-      him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to
-      cry out, &ldquo;O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They
-      despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins; come to me; come to
-      me! be surrounded with love!&rdquo; But he dared not. How could he dare?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night. She
-      had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or
-      burdens; but she went on: &ldquo;The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will
-      not tell me who my mother was; and I do not know if she is alive or not,
-      or anything about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade me ever to
-      ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper for
-      me to know. But she never has.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never seemed
-      so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were to tell
-      her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to him, or repel
-      her?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have you never asked her again?&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona looked up astonished. &ldquo;No one ever disobeyed the Senora,&rdquo; she said
-      quickly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You may think so,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;but you couldn't. When you tried, you
-      would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What did he say?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, breathless.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the
-      time came, I would be told,&rdquo; answered Ramona, sadly. &ldquo;I don't see what
-      they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita,&rdquo; replied
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;Many things that your people do, and still more that these
-      Americans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what they mean. Perhaps
-      they do not know who was your mother?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am sure they do,&rdquo; answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words were
-      wrung from her. &ldquo;But let us talk about something else, Alessandro; not
-      about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your staying
-      here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?&rdquo; said
-      Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know it would,&rdquo; answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her
-      voice, which Alessandro felt. &ldquo;I do not see what we could any of us do
-      without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's face glowed. &ldquo;It must be as my father says, Senorita,&rdquo; he
-      said. &ldquo;A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a
-      letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to me, and asking
-      him what I should do. My father is very old, Senorita, and I do not see
-      how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years
-      ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very
-      lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope he
-      will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to do for
-      the village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more than get
-      what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see them better
-      off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all around us, he
-      is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big fence built
-      around our land, so as to show where it is; but the people cannot take
-      much time to work on the fence; they need all their time to work for
-      themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live now,
-      Senorita. Were you ever in Temecula?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Is it a large town?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro sighed. &ldquo;Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a little
-      village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those are built
-      only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall
-      around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do, before we
-      built the fence round the village.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How many people are there in the village?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them are away
-      most of the time. They must go where they can get work; they are hired by
-      the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or to go as shepherds;
-      and some of them take their wives and children with them. I do not believe
-      the Senorita has ever seen any very poor people.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor
-      people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Indians?&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona colored. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;some of them were, but not like your
-      men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could
-      not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is the trouble,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;with so many of them; it is with
-      my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father gets in
-      despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives them a
-      great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it. There is
-      only one other man in our village who can read and write, besides my
-      father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time begging them to
-      come to his house and learn of him. But they say they have no time; and
-      indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see everybody has
-      troubles, Senorita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her.
-      Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and
-      personal matters.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, but these are real troubles,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I do not think mine were
-      real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people,
-      Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could I
-      not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to teach
-      the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I wish I
-      could teach your people. Have you any relatives there besides your father?
-      Is there any one in the village that you&mdash;love, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe the
-      hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters,
-      all of my father's people,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and I am unhappy about them all the
-      time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of
-      thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said
-      about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held to
-      Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared his
-      father would not let him remain away from home for any length of time. At
-      the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking a sudden
-      step towards him, she said abruptly, &ldquo;Alessandro, I am afraid your father
-      will not give his consent to your staying here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So am I, Senorita,&rdquo; he replied sadly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How could I, Senorita?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it would not be right;&rdquo; but as she said these words, the
-      tears filled her eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. &ldquo;Senorita! Senorita
-      Ramona!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita, then you
-      will not be angry if I say that I love you!&rdquo; and Alessandro trembled with
-      the terror and delight of having said the words.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the
-      words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,&mdash;&ldquo;I know
-      that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!&rdquo; Yes, this was what the
-      Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, &ldquo;But you, Senorita, you
-      do not&mdash;you could not&mdash;&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I do&mdash;I love
-      you!&rdquo; in the same clear, firm whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's
-      arms were around Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than
-      saying, &ldquo;O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you are
-      mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!&rdquo; But he was kissing
-      her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I
-      do mean it; I will go with you,&rdquo; clung to him with her hands, and kissed
-      him, and repeated it, &ldquo;I will go with you, I love you.&rdquo; And then, just
-      then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry of amazement, and there
-      she stood, no more than an arm's-length away, looking at them with her
-      indignant, terrible eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he
-      crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions
-      did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened for
-      sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness
-      deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in the
-      Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room, soon
-      put out,&mdash;evidently no supper going on there. Only from under
-      Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and creeping close to the
-      veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking,&mdash;the Senora's and
-      Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her window;
-      it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. Where was
-      she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution and
-      infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going to her
-      window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own responsibility.
-      He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his love made a sign.
-      Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his veranda bed, and then
-      he could venture to speak to him. But it was near midnight when the door
-      of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother came out, still speaking in
-      low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his mother, bending over, kissed
-      him, bade him good-night, and went into her own room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the
-      veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. But
-      Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised when, a few
-      minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice through the
-      vines, &ldquo;Senor Felipe?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hush, Alessandro,&rdquo; whispered Felipe. &ldquo;Do not make a sound. To-morrow
-      morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not safe
-      to talk here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where is the Senorita?&rdquo; Alessandro breathed rather than said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In her room,&rdquo; answered Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro
-      had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not
-      all; one other thing comforted him,&mdash;the notes of two wood-doves,
-      that at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the
-      call and the answer, &ldquo;Love?&rdquo; &ldquo;Here.&rdquo; &ldquo;Love?&rdquo; &ldquo;Here,&rdquo;&mdash;and long
-      intervals of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing
-      they told.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is what my Ramona is like,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;the gentle wood-dove. If
-      she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XI
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After
-      closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about Ramona.
-      It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the evening with
-      Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind. But Felipe was
-      still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his night's rest, she
-      thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover, she was not clear in
-      her own mind what she wished to have done about Alessandro. If Ramona were
-      to be sent away to the nuns, which was the only thing the Senora could
-      think of as yet, there would be no reason for discharging Alessandro. And
-      with him the Senora was by no means ready to part, though in her first
-      anger she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As she pursued her
-      reflections, the whole situation cleared itself in her mind; so easily do
-      affairs fall into line, in the plottings and plannings of an arbitrary
-      person, who makes in his formula no allowance for a human element which he
-      cannot control.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a servant
-      there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands of her
-      forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect her any longer
-      to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her sister's written
-      instructions had provided for the possibility of just such a contingency.
-      Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a life-size statue of Saint
-      Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box, battered and rusty with age,
-      and set it on the bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. It was
-      many years since the Senora had opened this box. No one but herself knew
-      of its existence. There had been many times in the history of the Moreno
-      house when the price of the contents of that box would have averted loss
-      and misfortune; but the Senora no more thought of touching the treasure
-      than if it had been guarded by angels with fiery swords. There they lay,
-      brilliant and shining even in the dim light of the one candle,&mdash;rubies,
-      emeralds, pearls, and yellow diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she
-      looked at them. &ldquo;Fine dowry, truly, for a creature like this!&rdquo; she said.
-      &ldquo;Well I knew in the beginning no good would come of it; base begotten,
-      base born, she has but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose
-      I may be grateful that my own son was too pure to be her prey!&rdquo; &ldquo;To be
-      given to my adopted daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,&rdquo;&mdash;so
-      the instructions ran,&mdash;&ldquo;if she weds worthily and with your approval.
-      Should such a misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she
-      should prove unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of
-      value, shall be the property of the Church.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves
-      unworthy,&rdquo; thought the Senora, bitterly; &ldquo;but the Church is the place for
-      her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of disgrace. I
-      recollect my sister said that Angus had at first intended to give the
-      infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it with its
-      Indian mother!&rdquo; and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The paper of her
-      dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked, her long skirt
-      swept it rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up, read it again,
-      with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of her sister's love
-      for the little child; no relenting. &ldquo;Unworthy!&rdquo; Yes, that was a mild word
-      to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once
-      out of the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would
-      lead their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day. Was there a
-      woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But he must wed; and
-      the place would be gay with children's voices, and Ramona would be
-      forgotten.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora did not know how late it was. &ldquo;I will tell her to-night,&rdquo; she
-      said. &ldquo;I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which
-      made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her to
-      go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them to the
-      room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she opened
-      the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle high up;
-      no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It was
-      open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. &ldquo;She has run off with
-      Alessandro,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;What horrible disgrace.&rdquo; Standing motionless,
-      she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other side of the bed.
-      Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had melted a heart that
-      was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward Ramona. There lay Ramona
-      on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet of the big Madonna which
-      stood in the corner. Her left hand was under her cheek, her right arm
-      flung tight around the base of the statue. She was sound asleep. Her face
-      was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was full of significance. Even
-      helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken refuge in sanctuary. This
-      thought had been distinct in the girl's mind when she found herself, spite
-      of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy. &ldquo;She won't dare to hurt me at
-      the Virgin's feet,&rdquo; she had said; &ldquo;and the window is open. Felipe would
-      hear if I called; and Alessandro will watch.&rdquo; And with a prayer on her
-      lips she fell asleep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from
-      being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments looking
-      at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful suspicions,
-      she noted what she had never before thought of, that Alessandro, through
-      all his watching with Felipe, had had close access to Ramona's window.
-      &ldquo;Shameful creature!&rdquo; she repeated to herself. &ldquo;And she can sleep! It is
-      well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!&rdquo; and she turned away, first
-      setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a table. Then, with a sudden
-      and still more curious mingling of justness in her wrath, she returned,
-      and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over Ramona, covering her
-      carefully from head to foot. Then she went out and again locked the door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. &ldquo;Thank
-      God, the poor child is asleep!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and my poor dear mother feared
-      to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!&rdquo; And
-      Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy sleep, when
-      his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of the sunrise
-      hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready; and no sooner
-      did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her voice, than he
-      struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour, prowling,
-      listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her jealousy and
-      her fears,&mdash;even Margarita delayed not to unite; and Felipe, too,
-      sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded and melodious
-      as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of being all full
-      of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of them all who was
-      not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro most of all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The saints be praised,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;There is my wood-dove's voice.
-      She can sing!&rdquo; And, &ldquo;Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I am glad
-      he loves me,&rdquo; said Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To hear those two voices.&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;would one suppose they could
-      sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where
-      Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to
-      Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread and
-      milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's own
-      hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the previous
-      evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out; and Ramona
-      knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be known to
-      none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants to
-      gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very hungry.
-      Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down to wait.
-      For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much try. Ramona
-      had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule. She felt
-      little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going away
-      presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom lay in
-      the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born emotions
-      was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, and
-      slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the room.
-      This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it had done
-      before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed to her
-      like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the whole tone
-      and manner of her address.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room, she
-      said, in a tone scornful and insulting, &ldquo;What have you to say for
-      yourself?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the
-      same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to stay
-      the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; she said slowly, &ldquo;I tried to tell you last night, but you would
-      not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so angry.
-      Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were not
-      ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go away.
-      I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure you will be a
-      great deal happier when I am away;&rdquo; and Ramona looked wistfully, with no
-      shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. &ldquo;You have been
-      very good to do so much for a girl you did not love. Thank you for the
-      bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away with Alessandro to-day. I
-      do not know what he will wish. We had only just that minute spoken of
-      being married, when you found us last night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say
-      these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the first
-      sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed, followed
-      a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much scorn, but a
-      bitterer anger. &ldquo;Marry! Marry that Indian!&rdquo; she cried, as soon as she
-      found voice. &ldquo;You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I will never permit
-      it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona looked anxiously at her. &ldquo;I have never disobeyed you, Senora,&rdquo; she
-      said, &ldquo;but this is different from all other things; you are not my mother.
-      I have promised to marry Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said icily, &ldquo;I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's
-      place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to me.
-      You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to speak
-      again of marrying this Indian.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise and
-      cost, of what stuff this girl was made,&mdash;this girl, who had for
-      fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and uncomplaining
-      in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking swiftly till she
-      stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself startled by the
-      girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona said, in a louder,
-      firmer voice: &ldquo;Senora Moreno, you may forbid me as much as you please. The
-      whole world cannot keep me from marrying Alessandro. I love him. I have
-      promised, and I shall keep my word.&rdquo; And with her young lithe arms
-      straight down at her sides, her head thrown back, Ramona flashed full in
-      the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. It was the first free moment
-      her soul had ever known. She felt herself buoyed up as by wings in air.
-      Her old terror of the Senora fell from her like a garment thrown off.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her
-      wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, &ldquo;you talk like a
-      fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow, if
-      I choose?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, you cannot!&rdquo; replied Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who, then, is to hinder me.&rdquo; said the Senora, insolently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; answered Ramona, proudly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; the Senora sneered. &ldquo;Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on
-      whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. &ldquo;You would never dare!&rdquo;
-       she cried; &ldquo;Felipe would not permit it!&rdquo; A most unwise retort for Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. &ldquo;How dare you pronounce his
-      name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to you.
-      Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the truth.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You are mistaken, Senora,&rdquo; answered Ramona, more gently. &ldquo;Felipe is
-      Alessandro's friend, and&mdash;mine,&rdquo; she added, after a second's pause.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of Moreno!&rdquo;
-       cried the Senora. &ldquo;We will see! we will see! Follow me, Senorita Ramona!&rdquo;
-       And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out, looking back over her
-      shoulder.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Follow me!&rdquo; she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona hesitated; and
-      Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into
-      the veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's room,&mdash;the
-      Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual
-      gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes bent
-      on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita, standing
-      just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She would help the Senora against me in anything,&rdquo; thought Ramona; and
-      she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had not
-      stirred.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the
-      curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every
-      movement.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sit down in that chair,&rdquo; said the Senora, pointing to one near the
-      fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would rather stand, Senora,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do as I bid you.&rdquo; said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona obeyed. It
-      was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, her senses seemed
-      leaving her. She leaned her head against the back and closed her eyes. The
-      room swam. She was roused by the Senora's strong smelling-salts held for
-      her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the Senora's iciest voice: &ldquo;The
-      Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she did a few moments back!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her, in
-      this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror had
-      got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her face, took
-      hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half around, brought
-      into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the keyhole, which
-      she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had read of persons
-      who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and starved to death.
-      With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all unaware of her terror,
-      was prolonging it and intensifying it by her every act. First she took out
-      the small iron box, and set it on a table. Then, kneeling, she drew out
-      from an inner recess in the closet a large leather-covered box, and pulled
-      it, grating and scraping along the floor, till it stood in front of
-      Ramona. All this time she spoke no word, and the cruel expression of her
-      countenance deepened each moment. The fiends had possession of the Senora
-      Moreno this morning, and no mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might
-      have indeed been fearful, at being locked up alone with a woman who looked
-      like that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place.
-      Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into the wall
-      closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old battered
-      boxes. What could it all mean?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita Ramona Ortegna,&rdquo; began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and
-      seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, &ldquo;I will now
-      explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,&mdash;not her old
-      self, her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his
-      name, even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away.
-      She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was
-      young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap
-      through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno,&rdquo; she said, in a tone
-      as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, &ldquo;Do not interrupt me
-      again. I have much to tell you;&rdquo; and opening the box, she lifted out and
-      placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written paper
-      lay at the bottom of the box.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?&rdquo; she asked, holding it up. Ramona
-      bowed her head. &ldquo;This was written by my sister, the Senora Ortegna, who
-      adopted you and gave you her name. These were her final instructions to
-      me, in regard to the disposition to be made of the property she left to
-      you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while the
-      Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder, fear of
-      her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth, swept over
-      her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she listened. She
-      forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her eyes never left the
-      Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the Senora said sternly, &ldquo;You
-      see, now, that my sister left to me the entire disposition of everything
-      belonging to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it hasn't said who was my mother,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Is that all there
-      is in the paper?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing
-      that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her
-      forever?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who was your mother?&rdquo; she exclaimed, scornfully, &ldquo;There was no need to
-      write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At the word &ldquo;Indian,&rdquo; Ramona gave a low cry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora misunderstood it. &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;a low, common Indian. I told
-      my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in your veins would show
-      some day; and now it has come true.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. &ldquo;Yes, Senora Moreno,&rdquo; she
-      said, springing to her feet; &ldquo;the Indian blood in my veins shows to-day. I
-      understand many things I never understood before. Was it because I was an
-      Indian that you have always hated me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you,&rdquo; interrupted the
-      Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. &ldquo;And if I
-      am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am glad I
-      am an Indian! I am of his people. He will be glad!&rdquo; The words poured like
-      a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer and closer to
-      the Senora. &ldquo;You are a cruel woman,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I did not know it before;
-      but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no reason to treat me
-      so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me with Alessandro. You
-      have always hated me. Is my mother alive'? Where does she live? Tell me;
-      and I will go to her to-day. Tell me! She will be glad that Alessandro
-      loves me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora
-      answered: &ldquo;I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is
-      still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,&mdash;some low, vicious
-      creature, that your father married when he was out of his senses, as you
-      are now, when you talk of marrying Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He married her, then?&rdquo; asked Ramona, with emphasis. &ldquo;How know you that,
-      Senora Moreno?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He told my sister so,&rdquo; replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the
-      girl even this much of consolation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What was his name?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Phail; Angus Phail,&rdquo; the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found
-      herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she
-      chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew how.
-      Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of the one in
-      authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate question after
-      question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened it. With
-      unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many years had
-      rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, gowns of
-      satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the chairs, it
-      was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's eyes rested on
-      them dreamily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did my adopted mother wear all these?&rdquo; she asked, lifting in her hand a
-      fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the
-      value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if you
-      marry worthily, with my permission,&rdquo; said the Senora, in a voice a shade
-      less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. &ldquo;Did you understand what I
-      read you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson
-      silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the
-      jewel-box.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There are pearls in that,&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;that came with the things
-      your father sent to my sister when he died.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was
-      old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the
-      last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. &ldquo;This was my father's,
-      then.&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a new
-      baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all which had
-      been her father's property. &ldquo;They were your father's, and all these
-      rubies, and these yellow diamonds;&rdquo; and she pushed the tray towards her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully above
-      the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance came from
-      the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right and left,
-      making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their snowy
-      whiteness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will keep this handkerchief,&rdquo; she said, thrusting it as she spoke, by a
-      swift resolute movement into her bosom. &ldquo;I am very glad to have one thing
-      that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can give to the
-      Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I shall marry
-      Alessandro;&rdquo; and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had thrust
-      the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her chair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust, There
-      could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under which she
-      had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the fact that she
-      had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself what Father
-      Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis. Her religion and
-      the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from her in her sudden
-      wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that she became conscious
-      of this.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Father Salvierderra?&rdquo; she stammered; &ldquo;he has nothing to do with it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and followed
-      up her advantage. &ldquo;Father Salvierderra has to do with everything,&rdquo; she
-      said boldly. &ldquo;He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid me to marry him, and
-      if he did&mdash;&rdquo; Ramona stopped. She also was smitten with a sudden
-      terror at the vista opening before her,&mdash;of a disobedience to Father
-      Salvierderra.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And if he did,&rdquo; repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, &ldquo;would you
-      disobey him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say,&rdquo; retorted the Senora,
-      sarcastically, &ldquo;that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any
-      commands on you, to be thus disobeyed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other
-      of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she loved
-      the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His
-      displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His would
-      give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Clasping her hands, she said, &ldquo;Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that to
-      the Father!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family,&rdquo;
-       answered the Senora, chillingly. &ldquo;He will agree with me, that if you
-      persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I
-      shall tell him all;&rdquo; and she began putting the trays back in the box.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You will not tell him as it really is, Senora,&rdquo; persisted Ramona. &ldquo;I will
-      tell him myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You shall not see him! I will take care of that!&rdquo; cried the Senora, so
-      vindictively that Ramona shuddered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will give you one more chance,&rdquo; said the Senora, pausing in the act of
-      folding up one of the damask gowns. &ldquo;Will you obey me? Will you promise to
-      have nothing more to do with this Indian?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never, Senora,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;never!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then the consequences be on your own head,&rdquo; cried the Senora. &ldquo;Go to your
-      room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe. Do you
-      hear?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona bowed her head. &ldquo;I hear,&rdquo; she said; and gliding out of the room,
-      closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her room, sped like a
-      hunted creature down the veranda steps, across the garden, calling in a
-      low tone, &ldquo;Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that
-      southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to
-      Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a
-      terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom, was
-      wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had selected
-      it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she
-      halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she
-      entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of some
-      one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the path to
-      the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute for a
-      moment, gazing earnestly down this path. &ldquo;If the saints would only tell me
-      where he is!&rdquo; she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there, fearing
-      each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune was
-      favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she saw
-      Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. &ldquo;Oh, Felipe,
-      Felipe!&rdquo; she began.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, dear, I know it all,&rdquo; interrupted Felipe; &ldquo;Alessandro has told me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;but I could not
-      bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My mother forbade you to speak to me!&rdquo; cried Felipe, in a tone of terror.
-      &ldquo;Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking, she will be
-      even more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to me. I will do
-      all that I can.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, Felipe,&rdquo; began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know! I know!&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;but you must not make my mother any more
-      angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to
-      your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; sobbed Ramona, &ldquo;but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help
-      us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent,
-      will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this
-      minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe's face was horror-stricken. &ldquo;Shut you in the convent!&rdquo; he gasped.
-      &ldquo;Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk to
-      her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me
-      talking with you now;&rdquo; and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the
-      terrace.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she go
-      back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again,
-      meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro?
-      Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when she
-      entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless weeping.
-      If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's journey on
-      his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from her each
-      moment, she would have despaired indeed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him to
-      do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's face
-      and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe was
-      alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not
-      conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked
-      with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be out
-      of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. &ldquo;I will say
-      that I sent you,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;so she cannot feel that you have committed
-      any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time it will be
-      all settled what you shall do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not
-      need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be
-      foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be
-      out of the question.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is for
-      her sake I go?&rdquo; the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's eyes
-      as if he would read his inmost soul.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will,&rdquo; replied Felipe; and he held his hand
-      out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. &ldquo;You may trust me to do all I
-      can do for Ramona and for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;God bless you, Senor Felipe,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight
-      trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He's a noble fellow,&rdquo; said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro
-      leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all night,&mdash;&ldquo;a
-      noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who would have been
-      manlier or franker than he has been in this whole business. I don't in the
-      least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a noble fellow! But what is to be
-      done! What is to be done!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever
-      arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming now. He
-      was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted whether he
-      could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in the convent
-      terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had she power to do
-      that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she had, or she would not
-      have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the cruel injustice
-      of the idea.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I'd
-      help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can make my
-      mother feel so!&rdquo; And Felipe paced back and forth till the sun was high,
-      and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek shelter; then
-      he threw himself down under the willows. He dreaded to go into the house.
-      His instinctive shrinking from the disagreeable, his disposition to put
-      off till another time, held him back, hour by hour. The longer he thought
-      the situation over, the less he knew how to broach the subject to his
-      mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would be wise for him to
-      broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. It was Margarita, who
-      had been sent to call him to dinner. &ldquo;Good heavens! dinner already!&rdquo; he
-      cried, springing to his feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen him
-      talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down the river
-      road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look, and Ramona's, as
-      they passed the dining-room door together soon after breakfast. Margarita
-      could have given a tolerably connected account of all that had happened
-      within the last twenty-four hours to the chief actors in this tragedy
-      which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to know
-      anything, she yet knew nearly all; and her every pulse was beating high
-      with excited conjecture and wonder as to what would come next.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,&mdash;Ramona absent, the fiction
-      of her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the
-      Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's
-      face, she thought to herself, &ldquo;Ramona has spoken to him. When and how did
-      she do it?&rdquo; For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left her
-      presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her own
-      room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the morning
-      on the veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, when, and
-      where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer the Senora
-      studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to be outwitted
-      was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very eyes, as it
-      were, something evidently had happened, not only against her will, but
-      which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out towards Felipe,
-      and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise retort, &ldquo;Felipe would
-      not let you!&rdquo; What had Felipe done or said to make the girl so sure that
-      he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it come to this, that she,
-      the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own house by children and
-      servants!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as she
-      rose from the dinner-table, &ldquo;My son, I would like to have some
-      conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Certainly, mother,&rdquo; said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her
-      having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and walking
-      swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her waist, as it
-      was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed him gently, but
-      bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm, and leaning on it
-      heavily as she walked, said: &ldquo;This is the most fitting way, my son. I must
-      lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age is telling on me
-      fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in the last year?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, madre mia,&rdquo; replied Felipe, &ldquo;indeed I do not. I see not that you have
-      changed in the last ten years.&rdquo; And he was honest in this. His eyes did
-      not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of reasons. The
-      face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled by emotion,
-      transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: &ldquo;That must be because you so
-      love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles tell
-      on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last twenty-four
-      hours I seem to myself to have aged frightfully;&rdquo; and she looked keenly at
-      Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where poor Ramona had
-      swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing before her, gazing,
-      with a tender expression, upon her features, but saying nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I see that Ramona has told you all!&rdquo; she continued, her voice hardening
-      as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this
-      morning, early,&rdquo; Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the
-      conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. &ldquo;He came and spoke to me
-      last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning, and
-      then I would hear all he had to say.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she
-      asked, &ldquo;And what did he say?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He told me all that had happened.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All!&rdquo; said the Senora, sneeringly. &ldquo;Do you suppose that he told you all?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight,&rdquo; said Felipe,
-      &ldquo;and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought
-      you would prefer not to see him again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so
-      promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. &ldquo;Ah, I
-      did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once or
-      not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might devise
-      some measures by which he could be retained on the estate.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the
-      relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming?
-      In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he did
-      not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure that
-      retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any good to
-      Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the first glimpse
-      of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, &ldquo;Ah, dear mother, if
-      that could only be done, all would be well;&rdquo; and, never noting the
-      expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, he poured out
-      all he thought and felt on the subject.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and
-      Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and
-      the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he
-      would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole
-      estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That
-      would give them a good living here with us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears like a
-      voice from some other world,&mdash;so hollow, so strange. He stopped speaking,
-      and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first words he had
-      uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the floor,&mdash;a habit of hers
-      when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes now,
-      fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not all his
-      filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as scornful
-      as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why do you look at me like that, mother?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What have I
-      done?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora waved her hand imperiously. &ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; she reiterated. &ldquo;Do not
-      say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;&rdquo; and she fixed her eyes
-      on the floor again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than he
-      had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for the
-      first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl like
-      Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor little one!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;If my mother looked at her as she did at
-      me just now, I wonder she did not die.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona was
-      uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the cause,
-      or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time in his
-      whole life, angered her beyond her control.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature,&rdquo; she thought
-      bitterly to herself, &ldquo;without her coming between me and Felipe!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh
-      lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the
-      rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate
-      anger at his words.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe to
-      see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said in
-      trembling tones: &ldquo;Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything could
-      make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us too
-      dear. She must leave the house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A bitter
-      shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him tender;
-      and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied: &ldquo;I do not
-      see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing wrong in her
-      loving Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I found her in his arms!&rdquo; exclaimed the Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;Alessandro told me that he had just at that
-      instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would
-      marry him, just as you came up.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; retorted the Senora; &ldquo;do you think that Indian would have dared
-      to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not
-      conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to speak
-      about marriage to her at all.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, mother! mother!&rdquo; was all that Felipe could say to this. He was
-      aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his
-      mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he repeated, in a
-      tone which spoke volumes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;that is what I say. I see no reason why he hesitated
-      to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small ceremony of
-      marrying.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would,
-      mother,&rdquo; said Felipe courageously; &ldquo;you do him injustice.&rdquo; He longed to
-      add, &ldquo;And Ramona too,&rdquo; but he feared to make bad matters worse by pleading
-      for her at present.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I do not,&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;I do Alessandro full justice. I think
-      very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same
-      temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has
-      happened. It is all Ramona's fault.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely
-      this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood,
-      and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself
-      around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear her
-      thus wickedly accused.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him in
-      sudden astonishment. &ldquo;Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very angry; I
-      must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona. I have
-      seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under her feet;
-      and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it too! She has
-      seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all her soul, just
-      as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I am ever loved as
-      well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think they ought to be
-      married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to the estate, so that
-      they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful in it, nor anything
-      wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly natural. You know, mother, it
-      isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family; you know she is half
-      Indian.&rdquo; A scornful ejaculation from his mother interrupted him here; but
-      Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne out of himself at last by
-      impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to stop, because if he did, his
-      mother would speak; and already he felt a terror of what her next words
-      might be. &ldquo;I have often thought about Ramona's future, mother. You know a
-      great many men would not want to marry her, just because she is half
-      Indian. You, yourself, would never have given your consent to my marrying
-      her, if I had wanted to.&rdquo; Again an exclamation from the Senora, this time
-      more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe pressed on. &ldquo;No, of course you
-      would not, I always knew that; except for that, I might have loved her
-      myself, for a sweeter girl never drew breath in this God's earth.&rdquo; Felipe
-      was reckless now; having entered on this war, he would wage it with every
-      weapon that lay within his reach; if one did not tell, another might. &ldquo;You
-      have never loved her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I
-      don't think you have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how
-      much kinder you were to me than to her, and I never could understand it.
-      And you are unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've
-      seen her and Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother,
-      he has been with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one
-      of the family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I
-      thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever
-      looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I
-      don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not be
-      willing to have my own sister do!&rdquo; Here Felipe paused. He had made his
-      charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at the
-      onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,&mdash;and
-      even yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined
-      his constitution,&mdash;the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said
-      in a now composed tone: &ldquo;You do not believe that Ramona has done anything
-      that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be
-      willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been
-      speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her
-      power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do.
-      Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing
-      could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards her;
-      or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she
-      arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her
-      imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would be
-      no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he determined
-      the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate crisis.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than
-      the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her
-      wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been for
-      a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook. How just
-      and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly, with an
-      expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. &ldquo;Would you be
-      willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give but
-      one answer to this question. &ldquo;No, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I should not; but&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never mind buts,&rdquo; interrupted his mother; &ldquo;we have not got to those yet;&rdquo;
-       and she smiled on Felipe,&mdash;an affectionate smile, but it somehow gave
-      him a feeling of dread. &ldquo;Of course I knew you could make but one answer to
-      my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her dead than
-      married to any one of these Indians.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. &ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wait, dear!&rdquo; exclaimed his mother. &ldquo;One thing at a time, I see how full
-      your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when
-      listening just now to your eloquent defence of Ramona, Perhaps you may be
-      right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not discuss
-      those points.&rdquo; It was here that the Senora had perceived some things that
-      it would be out of her power to do. &ldquo;We will not discuss those, because
-      they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is our duty to do by
-      Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on her worthiness or
-      unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you to allow her to do what
-      you would not allow your own sister to do?&rdquo; The Senora paused for a
-      second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled and unhappy Felipe
-      looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on, &ldquo;You surely would not
-      think that right, my son, would you?&rdquo; And now the Senora waited for an
-      answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, mother,&rdquo; came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. &ldquo;I suppose not; but&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was sure my own son could make no other reply,&rdquo; interrupted the Senora.
-      She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to her questions.
-      &ldquo;Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona do anything which we
-      would not let her do if she were really of our own blood. That is the way
-      I have always looked at my obligation to her. My sister intended to rear
-      her as her own daughter. She had given her her own name. When my sister
-      died, she transferred to me all her right and responsibility in and for
-      the child. You do not suppose that if your aunt had lived, she would have
-      ever given her consent to her adopted daughter's marrying an Indian, do
-      you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe said,
-      in a low tone, &ldquo;No, I suppose she would not.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only that
-      we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider
-      disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust
-      reposed in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who
-      transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, mother,&rdquo; said the unhappy Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw
-      somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out; in
-      fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was confused.
-      Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all had been said
-      and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was evident that it
-      would never be with his mother's consent. &ldquo;Nor with mine either, openly,
-      the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet I have promised
-      Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck, I wish he had never
-      set foot on the place!&rdquo; said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable,
-      and tired with the perplexity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora continued: &ldquo;I shall always blame myself bitterly for having
-      failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with us a
-      great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one thing
-      and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's being in
-      danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover, any more than
-      of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any other of the
-      herdsmen or laborers. I regret it more than words can express, and I do
-      not know what we can do, now that it has happened.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's it, mother! That's it!&rdquo; broke in Felipe. &ldquo;You see, you see it is
-      too late now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. &ldquo;I suppose you would
-      really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a way
-      pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place, Of
-      course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant for
-      Ramona to stay here, and see him continually&mdash;at least for a time,
-      until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived for
-      him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do.&rdquo; The Senora artfully
-      interpolated, &ldquo;What should you think, Felipe, of having her go back to the
-      Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly
-      gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke
-      again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had cried
-      to him in the garden, &ldquo;Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the
-      convent, will you?&rdquo; &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;you would never do that. You
-      would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. &ldquo;Who spoke of shutting
-      up?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Ramona has already been there at school. She might go
-      again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is
-      the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get
-      over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?&rdquo; And
-      a third time the Senora paused for an answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing in
-      life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when, withdrawing
-      a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still supposes himself
-      free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim flutter. Subtle
-      questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as settled, much which
-      had never been settled at all, were among the best weapons in the Senora's
-      armory. They rarely failed her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Advise!&rdquo; cried Felipe, excitedly. &ldquo;Advise! This is what I advise&mdash;to
-      let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our
-      obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward
-      complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,&rdquo; interrupted the Senora,
-      sighing. &ldquo;I don't quite see how you would face it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I don't propose to face it,&rdquo; continued Felipe, testily. &ldquo;I don't
-      propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go
-      away with him, if she wants to.'
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Without our consent?&rdquo; said the Senora, gently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have
-      stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying her
-      to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will go, any
-      way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how he loves
-      her. Let her go!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?&rdquo;
-       asked the Senora, earnestly. &ldquo;Run away and marry him, spite of our
-      refusing to consent to the marriage?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, is
-      to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she
-      pleases?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's just what I do think, mother,&rdquo; replied Felipe, his heart growing
-      lighter at her words. &ldquo;That's just what I do think. We can't prevent it,
-      and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they like.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;They could
-      not stay here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't see why!&rdquo; said Felipe, anxiously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a
-      stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't
-      you see that would be so?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe's eyes fell. &ldquo;Then I suppose they couldn't be married here,
-      either,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily approved
-      of, my son?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;True, mother;&rdquo; and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. &ldquo;But then we
-      force them to run away!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no.&rdquo; said the Senora, icily. &ldquo;If they go, they will go of their own
-      accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If they
-      do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for not
-      having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use to
-      attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed his
-      friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication,
-      network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did not
-      see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother; he
-      did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to Alessandro
-      and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora studied his face. &ldquo;You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,&rdquo; she
-      said tenderly. &ldquo;As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate state of
-      affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Felipe, bitterly. &ldquo;I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just
-      turning Ramona out of the house, that's all.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felipe! Felipe!&rdquo; exclaimed the Senora, &ldquo;how unjust you are to yourself!
-      You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a home
-      here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as she
-      wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is it our
-      fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to what is
-      just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You know I
-      promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have always felt
-      that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died. Ramona has a
-      home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. It is not just,
-      Felipe, to say that we turn her out;&rdquo; and tears stood in the Senora's
-      eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Forgive me, dear mother,&rdquo; cried the unhappy Felipe. &ldquo;Forgive me for
-      adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable
-      business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it
-      is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,&rdquo; replied the Senora. &ldquo;If it
-      were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares and
-      burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I feel
-      myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe, I
-      wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send for Ramona
-      at once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt in great
-      anxiety; we will see her here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew
-      not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way, unlocked
-      Ramona's door, and said: &ldquo;Ramona, be so good as to come to my room. Felipe
-      and I have something to say to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, &ldquo;Felipe and I,&rdquo; boded no good.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,&rdquo; thought
-      Ramona. &ldquo;Oh, what will become of me!&rdquo; and she stole a reproachful,
-      imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her; but
-      the reassurance did not last long.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita Ramona Ortegna,&rdquo; began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had
-      no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed to
-      open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold and
-      distant they sounded,&mdash;as the Senora might speak to an intruding
-      stranger.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita Ramona Ortegna,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;my son and I have been discussing
-      what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and humiliating position in
-      which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of course
-      you know&mdash;or you ought to know&mdash;that it is utterly impossible
-      for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be
-      false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no sound
-      came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with downcast
-      eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face, despair seized
-      her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro!
-      Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,&mdash;a cry that cut Felipe to
-      the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of Ramona's
-      suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he had realized.
-      It would have taken very little, at such moments as these, to have made
-      Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her side, folding
-      his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It took all the
-      self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust to Ramona's
-      understanding him later.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's
-      sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: &ldquo;My son
-      tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that
-      you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in
-      thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra
-      forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your
-      determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the keeping
-      of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted you as her
-      child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some means of escape,
-      and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal on the family.
-      Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to bring you to reason
-      in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I wish to impress it upon
-      you that my son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's
-      representative, consider you a member of our own family. So long as we
-      have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it always has been. If
-      you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and us by marrying an
-      Indian, we cannot help ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the
-      Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl was
-      beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and her
-      perceptions were sharpened by love.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have you anything to say to me or to my son?&rdquo; asked the Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;I do not think of anything more to say than
-      I said this morning. Yes,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;there is. Perhaps I shall not speak
-      with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for the home you
-      have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe,&rdquo; she continued,
-      turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up affection and
-      sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,&mdash;&ldquo;you too, dear Felipe. You
-      have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as long as I
-      live;&rdquo; and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took them in his,
-      and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted him. She did not
-      intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between
-      her son and Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Is
-      it your purpose to go at once?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not know, Senora,&rdquo; stammered Ramona; &ldquo;I have not seen Alessandro; I
-      have not heard&mdash;&rdquo; And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who
-      answered compassionately,&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro has gone.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Gone!&rdquo; shrieked Ramona. &ldquo;Gone! not gone, Felipe!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Only for four days,&rdquo; replied Felipe. &ldquo;To Temecula. I thought it would be
-      better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back
-      immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with him?
-      Oh, why, why did he go?&rdquo; cried Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He went because my son told him to go,&rdquo; broke in the Senora, impatient of
-      this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's expressive
-      features. &ldquo;My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him would be
-      more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away, and
-      Alessandro obeyed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe,
-      and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the
-      streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, &ldquo;You have
-      been cruel; God will punish you!&rdquo; and without waiting to see what effect
-      her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she walked
-      swiftly out of the room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said the Senora, &ldquo;you see she defies us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She is desperate,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;I am sorry I sent Alessandro away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, my son,&rdquo; replied the Senora, &ldquo;you were wise, as you always are. It
-      may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in solitude.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?&rdquo; cried Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him. &ldquo;You
-      would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we could
-      do, was simply not to interfere with her in any way? To wash our hands, so
-      far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said the baffled Felipe; &ldquo;that was what I said. But, mother&mdash;&rdquo;
-       He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to say
-      or do?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it you are going to do, mother?&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;I don't seem to
-      understand what you are going to do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would be
-      thrown away. I shall do nothing,&rdquo; replied the Senora. &ldquo;Nothing whatever.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always has
-      been?&rdquo; said Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora smiled sadly. &ldquo;Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A girl
-      who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and me, but
-      Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the Moreno and
-      the Ortegna name,&mdash;we can't feel exactly the same towards her as we
-      did before, can we?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe made an impatient gesture. &ldquo;No, of course not. But I mean, is
-      everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I supposed so,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;Was not that your idea? We must try to
-      have it so, I think. Do not you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; groaned Felipe, &ldquo;if we can!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XIII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter
-      of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation
-      with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from the
-      thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the convent,
-      Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna jewels turned
-      into the treasury of the Church,&mdash;this was the plan she had
-      determined on in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not to be
-      overseer on the place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she would be
-      married to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and the Ortegna
-      jewels,&mdash;well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; that
-      should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora was,
-      she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question wholly into
-      her own hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He
-      had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in
-      sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be
-      sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not
-      impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so,
-      she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest.
-      Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret
-      from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's
-      death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her adopted
-      child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father came
-      again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. The
-      treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all these
-      fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went away
-      with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply stating
-      the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further questions must
-      wait for decision until they met.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her tireless
-      weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial failure of
-      her plans.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It has
-      an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,&mdash;a system so ingenious
-      that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still find some
-      booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at reprisals is
-      its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes vanity a
-      thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off
-      the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its
-      banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in
-      another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second
-      field than in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on
-      till death. It is impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration for
-      this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are to all who come in their
-      way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, when pride demands the
-      sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the earth,
-      when all other motives have died out of men's breasts; has won many a
-      crown, which has not been called by its true name.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of the
-      future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture
-      soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual occupations
-      also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do &ldquo;nothing&rdquo; in
-      regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that meant; how bitterly
-      much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also would do &ldquo;nothing;&rdquo; but
-      her mind still misgave her about Felipe. Unpityingly she had led him on,
-      and entangled him in his own words, step by step, till she had brought him
-      to the position she wished him to take. Ostensibly, his position and hers
-      were one, their action a unit; all the same, she did not deceive herself
-      as to his real feeling about the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked
-      Alessandro. Barring the question of family pride, which he had hardly
-      thought of till she suggested it, and which he would not dwell on apart
-      from her continuing to press it,&mdash;barring this, he would have liked
-      to have Alessandro marry Ramona and remain on the place. All this would
-      come uppermost in Felipe's mind again when he was removed from the
-      pressure of her influence. Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with
-      him on the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would
-      be best attained by taking and keeping the ground that the question of
-      their non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic
-      should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await
-      Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to
-      inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The details of the &ldquo;nothing&rdquo; she proposed to do, slowly arranged
-      themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's
-      position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no watch
-      on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down with them,
-      as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's sympathetic
-      sensitiveness could construe into any provocation to Ramona to run away.
-      Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment of every hour,
-      that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not of them; that
-      she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it. How this was to
-      be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but she knew very
-      well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this would. There
-      might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did she know
-      Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro, that she
-      might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the offence she
-      would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did perceive
-      this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,&mdash;the Senora grew
-      almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated this
-      contingency,&mdash;if she did thus humble herself and return to her
-      rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her, and
-      would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would take her
-      to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more of the world;
-      and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come about for her a
-      satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see that she was not
-      disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if Ramona herself would
-      behave properly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper,
-      and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was
-      drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it
-      both in her voice and look.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done
-      so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the
-      turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to Ramona
-      a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought; but
-      before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's eye
-      and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The emotion of
-      half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words changed
-      quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and she said to
-      herself: &ldquo;That's the way she is going to break me down, she thinks! But
-      she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the minute
-      Alessandro comes, I will go away with him.&rdquo; This train of thought in
-      Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and hardened
-      herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of surrender. Very
-      well. The girl had made her choice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had
-      overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and
-      Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion
-      as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped being
-      caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the
-      passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out, after her
-      final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had distinctly
-      heard: &ldquo;God will punish you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?&rdquo; ejaculated Margarita,
-      under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not even seeing
-      her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following Ramona, saw her; and the
-      Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she called, &ldquo;How comes it
-      you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of the day, Margarita?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick
-      lie which she instantaneously told. &ldquo;There was early breakfast, Senora, to
-      be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother was
-      not up, so I had it to cook.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She
-      changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering
-      about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the
-      sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as he
-      rode past,&mdash;only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he
-      had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had at
-      Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been
-      Margarita's motive for telling this lie?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long
-      with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing
-      which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the
-      Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there was
-      added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of
-      jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants of
-      late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to his
-      being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music, there
-      was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and went as a
-      physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should this freedom
-      and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen mutterings of
-      this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers and servants were
-      gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being absent from the
-      group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming from the south
-      veranda, where the family sat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,&rdquo; Juan
-      Canito would grumble; &ldquo;but the lad's chary enough of his bow on this side
-      the house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!&rdquo; Margarita would reply;
-      &ldquo;'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not always.
-      But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides fiddling!&rdquo; and
-      Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an expression of
-      concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to draw from
-      everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would she answer.
-      She knew better than to slander the Senorita Ramona, or to say a word even
-      reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman there would have
-      borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came among them as a
-      toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her now. Not one of them
-      whom she had not done good offices for,&mdash;nursed them, cheered them,
-      remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days. To no one but her
-      mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what she suspected; and
-      old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such words, had terrified
-      Margarita into the solemnest of promises never, under any circumstances
-      whatever, to say such things to any other member of the family. Marda did
-      not believe them. She could not. She believed that Margarita's jealousy
-      had imagined all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour, and me
-      too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you blackening the
-      Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had just
-      dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into her
-      room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her with
-      Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in sheer
-      mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed Margarita's
-      ears for telling her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again! Whatever's
-      come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof, and I never
-      saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of your senses,
-      child!&rdquo; she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not,&rdquo; retorted Margarita, and
-      ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was shut, and
-      the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old Marda had herself crept
-      softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard Ramona sobbing as if
-      her heart would break. Then she knew that what Margarita had said must be
-      true, and her faithful soul was in sore straits what to think. The
-      Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever happened, it was not that!
-      There was some horrible mistake somewhere. Kneeling at the keyhole, she
-      had called cautiously to Ramona, &ldquo;Oh, my lamb, what is it?&rdquo; But Ramona had
-      not heard her, and the danger was too great of remaining; so scrambling up
-      with difficulty from her rheumatic knees, the old woman had hobbled back
-      to the kitchen as much in the dark as before, and, by a curiously
-      illogical consequence, crosser than ever to her daughter. All the next day
-      she watched for herself, and could not but see that all appearances bore
-      out Margarita's statements. Alessandro's sudden departure had been a
-      tremendous corroboration of the story. Not one of the men had had an
-      inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, both alike astonished; no word left, no
-      message sent; only Senor Felipe had said carelessly to Juan Can, after
-      breakfast: &ldquo;You'll have to look after things yourself for a few days,
-      Juan. Alessandro has gone to Temecula.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;For a few days!&rdquo; exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was
-      repeated to her. &ldquo;That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here
-      again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south veranda, I
-      wager you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard, as
-      she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, &ldquo;Are you
-      ready for supper, Ramona?&rdquo; and Ramona was seen to come out and walk by the
-      Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,&mdash;but then that
-      was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the Senora's
-      presence,&mdash;when Marda, standing in the court-yard, feigning to be
-      feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, saw
-      this, she was relieved, and thought: &ldquo;It's only a dispute there has been.
-      There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our affair.
-      All is settled now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all coming
-      in as usual,&mdash;the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,&mdash;no change, even to
-      her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had
-      been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than once
-      since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she
-      remembered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its
-      complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results
-      attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure put
-      upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison
-      in matter of blindness,&mdash;&ldquo;blind as a bat,&rdquo; for instance. It would be
-      safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any
-      other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection,
-      as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms of their
-      families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and heal, strength
-      falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether, every day,
-      without being noted by the closest lookers-on.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a
-      storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed
-      the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and reasoner
-      than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any serious disaster
-      could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual
-      fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in the veranda, dozing.
-      The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to
-      every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with her hands
-      folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied herself with her
-      usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers before all the
-      Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had been for a long
-      time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel. It was to have
-      been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she held up the frame
-      in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate tracery of the
-      pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling of interest and
-      hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it, often saying to
-      herself, &ldquo;She won't care much for it, beautiful as it is, just because I
-      did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when he sees it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: &ldquo;She will never
-      let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to Father
-      Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him. I will ask
-      Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it would be a
-      shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me.&rdquo; But as she thought these
-      things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had settled on Ramona.
-      &ldquo;Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything for four days!&rdquo; these
-      words were coming and going in her mind like refrains of songs which haunt
-      one's memory and will not be still. She saw that Felipe looked anxiously
-      at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always with a gentle smile.
-      It was evident that the Senora did not intend that she and Felipe should
-      have any private conversation; but that did not so much matter. After all,
-      there was not so much to be said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him
-      nothing; Felipe had acted for the best, as he thought, in sending
-      Alessandro away till the heat of the Senora's anger should have spent
-      itself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone, had
-      passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come back
-      prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know; but she
-      would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the Senora
-      good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far
-      Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It was
-      a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way: no
-      wedding&mdash;no wedding clothes&mdash;no friends&mdash;to go unmarried,
-      and journey to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; &ldquo;but it
-      is not my fault,&rdquo; said Ramona to herself; &ldquo;it is hers. She drives me to do
-      it. If it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would
-      gladly come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could
-      go to him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride
-      so far; we could do it in two days.&rdquo; The more Ramona thought of this, the
-      more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. &ldquo;He will be on
-      our side, I know he will,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He always liked Alessandro, and
-      he loves me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's
-      mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too full
-      of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's habit to
-      dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up she had
-      accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now she accepted
-      her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of things, and not to
-      be altered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds of
-      fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that there
-      was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting on the
-      veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was deceived by
-      her calmness, and wondered what it meant,&mdash;if it could be that she
-      was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible, and
-      designated as coming &ldquo;to her senses.&rdquo; Even Felipe did not know the
-      steadfast fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond
-      had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of
-      what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part of
-      their intercourse with each other; nothing could have been farther removed
-      from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis of incident, or
-      marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's imaginations of love were
-      essential to the fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on the
-      part of those who have never felt love's true bonds. Once in those chains,
-      one perceives that they are not of the sort full forged in a day. They are
-      made as the great iron cables are made, on which bridges are swung across
-      the widest water-channels,&mdash;not of single huge rods, or bars, which
-      would be stronger, perhaps, to look at, but of myriads of the finest
-      wires, each one by itself so fine, so frail, it would barely hold a
-      child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, hundreds of thousands of such,
-      twisted, re-twisted together, are made the mighty cables, which do not any
-      more swerve from their place in the air, under the weight and jar of the
-      ceaseless traffic and tread of two cities, than the solid earth swerves
-      under the same ceaseless weight and jar. Such cables do not break.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved
-      Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden
-      adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply a
-      response; but now it was as strong a love as his,&mdash;as strong, and as
-      unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air
-      to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent
-      seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny
-      called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy
-      with which Alessandro would hear this,&mdash;the joy and the surprise. She
-      imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in
-      which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best; as
-      to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would tell
-      him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of greeting. No!
-      There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment then. She would wait
-      till they were far away, till they were alone, in the wilderness; and then
-      she would turn to him, and say, &ldquo;Alessandro, my people are your people!&rdquo;
-       Or she would wait, and keep her secret until she had reached Temecula, and
-      they had begun their life there, and Alessandro had been astonished to see
-      how readily and kindly she took to all the ways of the Indian village; and
-      then, when he expressed some such emotion, she would quietly say, &ldquo;But I
-      too am an Indian, Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat with
-      happiness as she dreamed them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XIV
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word
-      had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the
-      Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel a
-      thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought
-      this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona.
-      She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that he
-      had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have been
-      disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning or
-      expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest, of
-      which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through her
-      window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with
-      wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance to
-      hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed make
-      bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first sound
-      of his footsteps on the veranda floor, &ldquo;My son, are you ill? Can I do
-      anything?&rdquo; came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at all.
-      It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan again;
-      and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with sheer
-      impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the bed,
-      taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The Senora
-      sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It was very hot;
-      a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been blowing all day,
-      and every living creature was more or less prostrated by it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking out a
-      memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly writing.
-      Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her that it was
-      for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was asleep.
-      Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his hand, rose,
-      and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly watching him; the
-      sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat up instantly, and gazed
-      about her with that indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope
-      they have not been asleep, but know they have. &ldquo;Have I been asleep?&rdquo; she
-      asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;About one minute, mother,&rdquo; answered Felipe, who was leaning, as he spoke,
-      against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him. Stretching them
-      out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, he said, &ldquo;This heat is
-      intolerable!&rdquo; Then he sauntered leisurely down the veranda steps into the
-      garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench under the trellis there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with
-      fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the Senora
-      were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But fortune
-      is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing off
-      again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona. As
-      soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora opened her
-      eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was going into
-      the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you going to your room, Ramona?&rdquo; said the Senor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was,&rdquo; replied Ramona, alarmed. &ldquo;Did you want me here?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear Ramona,&rdquo; Felipe had written, &ldquo;I am distracted because I cannot speak
-      with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain things to you.
-      I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandro will
-      surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but you saw I
-      could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing what you please; but,
-      dear, I wish you would not go away from us!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her bosom,
-      to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing that the
-      Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply to Felipe,
-      though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to him, there was
-      no telling. &ldquo;Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I am not unhappy. I
-      understand all about it. But I must go away as soon as Alessandro comes.&rdquo;
-       Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back to the veranda. Felipe
-      rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly bold, stooped, and
-      laid her note on the second step. Again the tired eyes of the Senora
-      opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramona was at her work;
-      Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. He nodded laughingly to
-      his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. All was well. The Senora
-      dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than she would ever know. This one
-      secret interchange between Felipe and Ramona then, thus making, as it
-      were, common cause with each other as against her, and in fear of her, was
-      a step never to be recalled,&mdash;a step whose significance could
-      scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and small, are apt to overlook
-      such possibilities as this; to forget the momentousness which the most
-      trivial incident may assume when forced into false proportions and
-      relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats out of the honestest souls.
-      It is done oftener than any except close students of human nature realize.
-      When kings and emperors do this, the world cries out with sympathy, and
-      holds the plotters more innocent than the tyrant who provoked the plot. It
-      is Russia that stands branded in men's thoughts, and not Siberia.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was
-      living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how
-      little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever
-      felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and
-      this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and
-      hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a
-      day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had. All
-      day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what
-      Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on the
-      previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have made the
-      journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that there might
-      be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He would doubtless
-      return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case that proved the only
-      alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as his fancy dwelt on the
-      picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the Temecula village. He knew
-      its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was monstrous, To the indolent,
-      ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a girl reared as Ramona had
-      been, could for a moment contemplate leading the life of a poor laboring
-      man's wife. He could not conceive of love's making one undertake any such
-      life. Felipe had much to learn of love. Night came; no Alessandro. Till
-      the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, watching the willows. When she
-      could no longer see, she listened. The Senora, noting all, also listened.
-      She was uneasy as to the next stage of affairs, but she would not speak.
-      Nothing should induce her to swerve from the line of conduct on which she
-      had determined. It was the full of the moon. When the first broad beam of
-      its light came over the hill, and flooded the garden and the white front
-      of the little chapel, just as it had done on that first night when
-      Alessandro watched with Felipe on the veranda, Ramona pressed her face
-      against the window-panes, and gazed out into the garden. At each
-      flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the form of a man approaching.
-      Again and again she saw it. Again and again the breeze died, and the
-      shadow ceased. It was near morning before, weary, sad, she crept to bed;
-      but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious eyes, she still watched and
-      listened. Never had the thought once crossed her mind that Alessandro
-      might not come at the time Felipe had said. In her childlike simplicity
-      she had accepted this as unquestioningly as she had accepted other facts
-      in her life. Now that he did not come, unreasoning and unfounded terror
-      took possession of her, and she asked herself continually, &ldquo;Will he ever
-      come! They sent him away; perhaps he will be too proud to come back!&rdquo; Then
-      faith would return, and saying to herself, &ldquo;He would never, never forsake
-      me; he knows I have no one in the whole world but him; he knows how I love
-      him,&rdquo; she would regain composure, and remind herself of the many
-      detentions which might have prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of
-      all, however, she was heavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes
-      and absent look were sad to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what
-      it meant. He also was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed
-      her. The girl might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not
-      appear. But why should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It
-      was a bad symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed,
-      trouble ahead,&mdash;of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now
-      since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand,
-      and said: &ldquo;You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she
-      understands why I go; and in four days I will be back.&rdquo; One week, and he
-      had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly
-      into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken
-      possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh days
-      she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he would
-      be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out to the
-      highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the distance,&mdash;the
-      cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back after dark, whiter and
-      more wan than she went out. As she sat at the supper-table, silent, making
-      no feint of eating, only drinking glass after glass of milk, in thirsty
-      haste, even Margarita pitied her. But the Senora did not. She thought the
-      best thing which could happen, would be that the Indian should never come
-      back. Ramona would recover from it in a little while; the mortification
-      would be the worst thing, but even that, time would heal. She wondered
-      that the girl had not more pride than to let her wretchedness be so
-      plainly seen. She herself would have died before she would go about with
-      such a woe-begone face, for a whole household to see and gossip about.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as he
-      was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and saw
-      them; but Ramona did not care. &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I must, I must speak
-      to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him from
-      coming?&rdquo; Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. A few
-      more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe thought, as
-      he looked compassionately at her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;A thousand things
-      might have kept him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;I know he is
-      dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words. Looking
-      toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been within
-      sight or hearing, the Senora said, &ldquo;It seems to me that would not be quite
-      consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' If you thought
-      best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, I suppose.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There were
-      several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the place
-      was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs, emptying
-      the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in a long shed.
-      In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it took one man to
-      watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons of his own he
-      liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer tread grapes in
-      the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work at the still. &ldquo;No
-      ill but has its good,&rdquo; he thought sometimes, as he lay comfortably
-      stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day, and breathing
-      the fumes of the fiery brandy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to Felipe,
-      and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone, nodding her
-      head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: &ldquo;She looks badly,
-      Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot send to summon back
-      a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is very perplexing. Most
-      unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?&rdquo; There was almost a
-      diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora could, by a single phrase
-      or question, plant in a person's mind the precise idea she wished him to
-      think he had originated himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No; of course we can't send for him,&rdquo; replied Felipe, angrily; &ldquo;unless it
-      is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on the place. I
-      am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. I believe she
-      will die.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place,&rdquo; said the
-      Senora, gently, &ldquo;for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; and he
-      is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying, She may
-      be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of what kind do they die, mother?&rdquo; asked Felipe, impatiently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora looked reproachfully at him. &ldquo;Not often of any,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but
-      certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneath them,
-      in position, in education, in all points which are essential to
-      congeniality of tastes or association of life.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing an
-      abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for the moment
-      felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a disgraceful
-      thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not be gainsaid
-      that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was undeniably
-      Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external matters of
-      life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro was no man's
-      inferior in these; and in capacity to love,&mdash;Felipe sometimes
-      wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. This
-      thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he had,
-      unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at Ramona.
-      But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present dilemma,
-      in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send a
-      messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had been an
-      accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that! Ramona ought
-      to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And when Felipe,
-      later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. He said it as
-      gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first comprehend his
-      idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith, how could she?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she did understand, she said slowly: &ldquo;You mean that it will not do to
-      send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if I
-      wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?&rdquo; and she fixed her
-      eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, dear,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;something like that, though you put it
-      harshly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is it not true,&rdquo; she persisted, &ldquo;that is what you mean?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still more
-      slowly, &ldquo;If you feel like that, we had better never talk about Alessandro
-      again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, as I do, that
-      nothing but his being dead would keep him from coming back. Thanks, dear
-      Felipe;&rdquo; and after this she did not speak again of Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if Ramona
-      would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost even the
-      Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted face, as
-      she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the
-      willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would never
-      hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to Father
-      Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old man,
-      could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she could
-      surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not many roads;
-      she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had been so terrible
-      to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had threatened her with it,
-      now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter she craved. There was a
-      school for orphans attached to the convent at San Juan Bautista, she knew;
-      she would ask the Father to let her go there, and she would spend the rest
-      of her life in prayer, and in teaching the orphan girls. As hour after
-      hour she sat revolving this plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly
-      into the future, that she lived years of her life. She felt herself
-      middle-aged, old. She saw the procession of nuns, going to vespers,
-      leading the children by the hand; herself wrinkled and white-haired,
-      walking between two of the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As
-      soon as she grew a little stronger, she would set off on her journey to
-      the Father; she could not go just yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled
-      if she did but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there
-      could be no doubt of that. He was buried in that little walled graveyard
-      of which he had told her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there
-      and see his grave, perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of
-      her, the old man would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work
-      might lie there, among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had
-      not courage for it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,&mdash;the sound
-      of the Church's prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent
-      was the best.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for
-      she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river
-      road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not go;
-      her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora, who
-      asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: &ldquo;No, Senora, I do not think
-      I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better
-      to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will send you strong broth and a medicine,&rdquo; the Senora said; and sent
-      her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down
-      at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much
-      thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. &ldquo;Oh,
-      Senorita! Senorita!&rdquo; she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, &ldquo;are you
-      going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita,&rdquo; replied Ramona, raising
-      herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face as
-      she took the broth from her hands. &ldquo;I do not know why you ask me to
-      forgive you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of weeping.
-      &ldquo;Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I know nothing,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;but if you know anything, it is all
-      forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away,&rdquo; she added,
-      after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she could trust
-      Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no longer be her
-      enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. &ldquo;I am going away, Margarita,
-      as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a convent; but the
-      Senora does not know. You will not tell?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senorita!&rdquo; whispered Margarita,&mdash;thinking in her heart, &ldquo;Yes,
-      she is going away, but it will be with the angels.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;No, Senorita, I
-      will not tell. I will do anything you want me to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thanks, Margarita mia,&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;I thought you would;&rdquo; and she
-      lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like
-      death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before, and
-      she ran to her mother, sobbing out, &ldquo;Mother, mother! the Senorita is ill
-      to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as white
-      as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; &ldquo;ay, she has
-      wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have seen
-      it. It must be she is starving herself to death.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,&mdash;hardly since that day;&rdquo; and
-      Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to further
-      define the day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,&rdquo; continued
-      Margarita.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The saints grant it, then,&rdquo; said Marda, hotly, &ldquo;if it is he has cost the
-      Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all, that
-      I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up with
-      whatever 'tis has gone wrong.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I could tell what it is,&rdquo; said Margarita, her old pertness coming
-      uppermost for a moment; &ldquo;but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita's
-      lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break your heart
-      to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for all I've said;
-      and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be with him before
-      long; I know she is.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the wiser, older Marda. &ldquo;She is not so ill as you think. She is
-      young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been that way
-      myself. People are, when they're young.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'm young!&rdquo; retorted Margarita. &ldquo;I've never been that way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl,&rdquo; said Marda,
-      significantly; &ldquo;and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb
-      when I was your age!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child of
-      hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's
-      father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were
-      perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and
-      daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough
-      to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly
-      leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and
-      ill-founded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do,&rdquo; thought Margarita. &ldquo;I
-      know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me; never,&mdash;not
-      till after she's gone.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on
-      the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were
-      not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to go!
-      No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone with
-      him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover ever
-      wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the
-      thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having had
-      it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet so
-      strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion were
-      to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been deeply in
-      love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and she remembered
-      him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of displeasure at the
-      recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now that the Senorita seemed
-      to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no room for anything but pity
-      for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage again, and all would be
-      changed. The old hostility would return. It was but a dubious sort of
-      ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly secured in Margarita. She
-      might prove the sharpest of broken reeds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona
-      had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself began
-      to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of all
-      thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed
-      torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced
-      rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over crises,
-      strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be slain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Ramona lay half unconscious,&mdash;neither awake nor yet asleep,&mdash;on
-      this evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression produced upon
-      her; it was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone; the house was
-      still as death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She
-      sat up in her bed, intent&mdash;half alarmed&mdash;half glad&mdash;bewildered&mdash;alive.
-      What had happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was
-      fast deepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered
-      senses and faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked
-      around the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands,
-      and leaped from the bed. &ldquo;Alessandro is not dead!&rdquo; she said aloud; and she
-      laughed hysterically. &ldquo;He is not dead!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;He is not dead! He
-      is somewhere near!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After the
-      first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not tremble;
-      her feet trod firm on the ground. &ldquo;Oh, miracle!&rdquo; she thought, as she
-      hastened down the garden-walk; &ldquo;I am well again! Alessandro is near!&rdquo; So
-      vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willows and found the
-      spot silent, vacant, as when she had last sat there, hopeless,
-      broken-hearted, she experienced a revulsion of disappointment. &ldquo;Not here!&rdquo;
-       she cried; &ldquo;not here!&rdquo; and a swift fear shook her. &ldquo;Am I mad? Is it this
-      way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as I have been!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this was
-      no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a
-      revelation. Alessandro was near.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener
-      grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present
-      mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that
-      she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter of
-      a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing, leaning
-      against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be Alessandro. He would
-      not have paused for a moment so near the house where he was to find her.
-      She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet a stranger in this lonely
-      spot. The figure was strangely still; so still that, as she peered through
-      the dusk, she half fancied it might be an optical illusion. She advanced a
-      few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped. As she did so, the man advanced a
-      few steps, then stopped. As he came out from the shadows of the trees, she
-      saw that he was of Alessandro's height. She quickened her steps, then
-      suddenly stopped again. What did this mean? It could not be Alessandro.
-      Ramona wrung her hands in agony of suspense. An almost unconquerable
-      instinct urged her forward; but terror held her back. After standing
-      irresolute for some minutes, she turned to walk back to the house, saying,
-      &ldquo;I must not run the risk of its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he
-      will come.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower
-      and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had
-      returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the
-      tree.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It may be a messenger from him,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;a messenger who has been told
-      not to come to the house until after dark.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments more
-      brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was&mdash;yes, it
-      was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away,
-      his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, rather
-      than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps, turned,
-      saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were clasped in
-      each other's arms before they had looked in each other's faces. Ramona
-      spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking up, she began:
-      &ldquo;Alessandro&mdash;&rdquo; But at the first sight of his face she shrieked. Was
-      this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man, who gazed at her
-      with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! &ldquo;O God,&rdquo; cried Ramona, &ldquo;You
-      have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what is it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to
-      collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes fixed
-      on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both her
-      hands in his.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;my Senorita!&rdquo; Then he stopped. His tongue seemed to
-      refuse him utterance; and this voice,&mdash;this strange, hard, unresonant
-      voice,&mdash;whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My Senorita,&rdquo; he began again, &ldquo;I could not go without one sight of your
-      face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If you
-      had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean? Her
-      look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Heavens, Senorita!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;have you not heard? Do you not know what
-      has happened?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know nothing, love,&rdquo; answered Ramona. &ldquo;I have heard nothing since you
-      went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night
-      something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms around
-      her again. As she said &ldquo;love,&rdquo; his whole frame shook with emotion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My Senorita!&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How shall
-      I tell you!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is there to tell, Alessandro?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am afraid of nothing,
-      now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining her
-      closer to his breast, he cried: &ldquo;Dearest Senorita! I feel as if I should
-      die when I tell you,&mdash;I have no home; my father is dead; my people
-      are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now, Senorita; like
-      those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!&rdquo; As he spoke the
-      last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against the tree, added: &ldquo;I
-      am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its look
-      of incredulous horror. He misread it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I only came to look at you once more,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;I will go now. May
-      the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent you to
-      me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had not come.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting it
-      now, she said, &ldquo;Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead,
-      Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I thought that the news about our village must have reached you,&rdquo; he
-      said, &ldquo;and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, to seem
-      to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was little enough I
-      had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believe that you could
-      come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I had thought of many things
-      I could do; and&mdash;&rdquo; lowering his voice and speaking almost sullenly&mdash;&ldquo;it
-      is the saints, I believe, who have punished me thus for having resolved to
-      leave my people, and take all I had for myself and you. Now they have left
-      me nothing;&rdquo; and he groaned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Was there a battle? Was your father killed?&rdquo; She was
-      trembling with horror.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Alessandro. &ldquo;There was no battle. There would have been, if
-      I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it
-      would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged me
-      to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He felt
-      terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We had
-      often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you
-      recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,&mdash;how fair he always was,
-      and kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested
-      miles and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died,
-      almost, than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order
-      his men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be
-      trouble; and well they might,&mdash;turning a whole village full of men
-      and women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like
-      foxes. If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him
-      dead, if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was
-      no help for us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, Alessandro,&rdquo; interrupted Ramona, &ldquo;I can't understand. Who was it
-      made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know who they are,&rdquo; Alessandro replied, his voice full of anger
-      and scorn. &ldquo;They're Americans&mdash;eight or ten of them. They all got
-      together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and it was
-      decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr.
-      Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could
-      go against the law.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;that's the way the Americans took so much of the
-      Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San Francisco; and
-      they decided that miles and miles of her land, which the General had
-      always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the United
-      States Government.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!&rdquo; cried
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;They are going to steal all the land in this country; we
-      might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them have it.
-      My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; but I did
-      not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but he was right.
-      I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to be thankful for
-      now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and I prayed to the
-      Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. He never knew anything
-      clear after they took him out of his house. That was before I got there. I
-      found him sitting on the ground outside. They said it was the sun that had
-      turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his heart breaking in his bosom.
-      He would not come out of his house, and the men lifted him up and carried
-      him out by force, and threw him on the ground; and then they threw out all
-      the furniture we had; and when he saw them doing that, he put his hands up
-      to his head, and called out, 'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not
-      there! Senorita, they said it was a voice to make the dead hear, that he
-      called with; and nobody could stop him. All that day and all the night he
-      kept on calling. God! Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me!
-      When I got there, some one had built up a little booth of tule over his
-      head, to keep the sun off. He did not call any more, only for water,
-      water. That was what made them think the sun had done it. They did all
-      they could; but it was such a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the
-      sheriff's men were in great hurry; they gave no time. They said the people
-      must all be off in two days. Everybody was running hither and thither.
-      Everything out of the houses in piles on the ground. The people took all
-      the roofs off their houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they
-      would do again. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is
-      like death. I can't!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love,
-      in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like
-      this.'
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don't weep, Senorita,&rdquo; said Alessandro, drearily. &ldquo;Tears kill one, and do
-      no good.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How long did your father live?&rdquo; asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer
-      around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona, yearning
-      over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one to be
-      sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if he had
-      been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his enfeebled and
-      benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received these caresses,
-      which once would have made him beside himself with joy. He leaned against
-      her breast as a child might.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I came
-      away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, is almost
-      weaker than I. The Americans took my horse,&rdquo; Alessandro said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Took your horse!&rdquo; cried Ramona, aghast. &ldquo;Is that the law, too?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must take enough
-      of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit up in San
-      Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they were worth, I
-      thought; but they said cattle were selling very low now. There were not
-      enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up in horses;
-      and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove the cattle away, or
-      I would have put a ball into Benito's head before any American should ever
-      have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachanga with my father. He would
-      not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led him all the way; and then
-      after he got there he was so ill I never left him a minute. He did not
-      know me any more, nor know anything that had happened. I built a little
-      hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he died. When I put him in his
-      grave, I was glad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Temecula?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Temecula.&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. &ldquo;You don't seem to
-      understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to our
-      graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be hanging
-      about there; for he said the men who were coming in were a rough set, and
-      they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw him trespassing on their
-      property.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Their property!&rdquo; ejaculated Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes; it is theirs,&rdquo; said Alessandro, doggedly. &ldquo;That is the law. They've
-      got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always said,&mdash;if
-      the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they never did in those
-      days. Nobody had papers. The American law is different.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It's a law of thieves!&rdquo; cried Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, and of murderers too,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Don't you call my father
-      murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita, my
-      Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin? But,
-      my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I will speak
-      no more.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not
-      share. Tell me about Jose,&rdquo; cried Ramona, breathlessly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year ago.
-      He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was the only
-      other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and that
-      splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at home
-      when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking.
-      That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little baby
-      only a few weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like to live,
-      and Jose would not leave it. Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff
-      riding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose
-      knew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my
-      father, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one minute,
-      and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit like that
-      once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would die. But he
-      did not. They picked him up, and presently he was better; and Mr.
-      Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the moving the first day as Jose
-      did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on the ground with
-      the women, and covered up their faces, and would not see. But Jose worked;
-      and, Senorita, one of the first things he did, was to run with my father's
-      violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her to hide it for us; Jose
-      knew it was worth money. But before noon the second day he had another
-      fit, and died in it,&mdash;died right in his own door, carrying out some
-      of the things; and after Carmena&mdash;that's his wife's name&mdash;saw he
-      was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back and forth on the ground,
-      with the baby in her arms. She went over to Pachanga at the same time I
-      did with my father. It was a long procession of us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where is Pachanga?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told the
-      people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to anybody,
-      and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any water; that's
-      the worst of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No water!&rdquo; cried Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by it
-      as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all. I
-      saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her on one
-      arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but the baby cried, so she
-      took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live the day out; but it did live
-      till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hours before he
-      died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl, and sat
-      down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'How is the
-      little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead. 'Good,
-      Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We will bury them
-      together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at night she helped me
-      dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's breast; but she
-      said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it herself; and we put
-      them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She was sitting there by
-      the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two little trees with the
-      boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves. So that is the way our
-      new graveyard was begun,&mdash;my father and the little baby; it is the
-      very young and the very old that have the blessed fortune to die. I cannot
-      die, it seems!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where did they bury Jose?&rdquo; gasped Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Temecula,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men dig a
-      grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at night
-      and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is very dark, I can
-      hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not stay longer. Can I go
-      as far as the brook with you, safely, without being seen? The saints bless
-      you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived, I think, without one
-      more sight of your face;&rdquo; and, springing to his feet, Alessandro stood
-      waiting for Ramona to move. She remained still. She was in a sore strait.
-      Her heart held but one impulse, one desire,&mdash;to go with Alessandro;
-      nothing was apparently farther from his thoughts than this. Could she
-      offer to go? Should she risk laying a burden on him greater than he could
-      bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as he said, would his life be hindered
-      or helped by her? She felt herself strong and able. Work had no terrors
-      for her; privations she knew nothing of, but she felt no fear of them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; she said, in a tone which startled him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My Senorita!&rdquo; he said tenderly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You have never once called me Ramona.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I cannot, Senorita!&rdquo; he replied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'&rdquo; he added faintly; &ldquo;but not
-      often. If I think of you by any other name than as my Senorita, it is
-      usually by a name you never heard.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,&mdash;the
-      wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thought my
-      people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. It is a
-      beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she laid
-      both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said:
-      &ldquo;Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to
-      your people.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's silence astonished her. &ldquo;You are surprised,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
-      thought you would be glad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I knew
-      it!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;And you never told me, Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How could I?&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Juan Canito!&rdquo; said Ramona, musingly. &ldquo;How could he have known?&rdquo; Then in a
-      few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her. &ldquo;Is
-      that what Juan Can said?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All except the father's name,&rdquo; stammered Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who did he say was my father?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was silent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It matters not,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;He was wrong. The Senora, of course, knew.
-      He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he gave me.
-      But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of my father.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, you have, my Senorita,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, tenderly. &ldquo;After I knew
-      it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to me like the
-      faces of my own people.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you not glad, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, my Senorita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without
-      premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what she
-      was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: &ldquo;Oh,
-      Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than
-      have you leave me again!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XV
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of his
-      arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost pain;
-      she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak. Then,
-      letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on his forehead
-      reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and trembling she
-      could barely understand his words: &ldquo;My Senorita knows that my life is
-      hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and neither the
-      fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make me glad for her
-      sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it away. She is
-      tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a bed, and have no
-      food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking of
-      her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather than
-      speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter Ramona. &ldquo;I
-      am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We can both work.
-      I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us food,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away that
-      morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not afraid,
-      I would not be; and that there would at least always be food, and I could
-      make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the saints are
-      displeased. They do not pray for us any more. It is as my father said,
-      they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy us all. I do not know
-      but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison us, to get us all out
-      of the country, as they do the rabbits and the gophers; it would not be
-      any worse than what they have done. Would not you rather be dead,
-      Senorita, than be as I am to-day?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share his
-      lot. &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; she interrupted, &ldquo;there are many men among your people
-      who have wives, are there not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita!&rdquo; replied Alessandro, wonderingly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has
-      come?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senorita.&rdquo; still more wonderingly; &ldquo;how could they?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make
-      them happier, are they not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita.&rdquo; Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended.
-      It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed
-      in her lines of interrogation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very much, Senorita.&rdquo; A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could not
-      see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even her
-      neck changed color as she asked her last question. &ldquo;Do you think any one
-      of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done. Were
-      not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not enough to
-      make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was silent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know there is not one!&rdquo; said Ramona, impetuously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, it is too much!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly. Then,
-      drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out breathless: &ldquo;My
-      Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare not go in. I know
-      it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must live. Let me go,
-      dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you had never seen me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?&rdquo;
-       said Ramona. &ldquo;I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all alone,
-      and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra, and ask him
-      to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is what I will do
-      now if you leave me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful
-      Senorita in the convent! No, no!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, greatly agitated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out
-      to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do as
-      she said. &ldquo;Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a wild
-      beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent
-      would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do
-      good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never
-      have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather die,
-      than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was conquered. &ldquo;I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,&rdquo; he
-      said gravely,&mdash;no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was
-      hollow; &ldquo;I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you, even
-      if they have forsaken me and my people!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake any one
-      who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long,
-      Alessandro,&rdquo; cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn
-      silence for a moment, as if registering a vow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any
-      woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, &ldquo;Then
-      you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my
-      Ramona,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing his
-      head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not tears
-      of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when he
-      first saw Ramona bending over the brook under the willows he had said
-      aloud, &ldquo;My God! what shall I do!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro
-      wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the
-      Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. &ldquo;You do not
-      know the Senora, Alessandro,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;or you would never think of it.
-      She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she would kill
-      me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to prevent my going
-      away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw me in the well in
-      the court-yard, rather than have me go with you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would never let her harm you,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Neither would Senor
-      Felipe.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,&rdquo; answered
-      Ramona. &ldquo;She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help
-      himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't
-      dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is
-      asleep. We must go at once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to wait
-      for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to embrace
-      him again. &ldquo;Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir from this
-      place till I come,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will be here when you come,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It will not be more than two hours,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;or three, at the utmost.
-      It must be nine o'clock now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave
-      the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something
-      to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her
-      innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she
-      had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey. As
-      Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had pictured
-      himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's
-      matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen short days
-      ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up and seen
-      Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the wind, the
-      overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of a steam-engine,
-      and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved her, had not spared
-      the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had uttered a cry, and flinging
-      himself off, came with a bound to his side, and with gasps between his
-      words told him. Alessandro could not remember the words, only that after
-      them he set his teeth, and dropping the bridle, laid his head down between
-      Benito's ears, and whispered to him; and Benito never stopped, but
-      galloped on all that day, till he came into Temecula; and there Alessandro
-      saw the roofless houses, and the wagons being loaded, and the people
-      running about, the women and children wailing; and then they showed him
-      the place where his father lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping
-      off Benito he let him go, and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only
-      eighteen days ago! And now here he was, under the willows,&mdash;the same
-      copse where he first halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was
-      night, dark night, and Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his;
-      and she was going back presently to go away with him,&mdash;where! He had
-      no home in the wide world to which to take her,&mdash;and this poor beast
-      he had ridden from Temecula, had it strength enough left to carry her?
-      Alessandro doubted. He had himself walked more than half the distance, to
-      spare the creature, and yet there had been good pasture all the way; but
-      the animal had been too long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga
-      canon, where they had found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun,
-      and the few horses taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had
-      died. But Alessandro, even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved
-      in his mind a project he would not have dared to confide to her. If Baba,
-      Ramona's own horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without
-      difficulty lure him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it
-      were, it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba
-      had always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he
-      could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by
-      Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona
-      could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly as
-      complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest pleasures,
-      during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to caress and fondle her
-      horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young mistress. If only
-      Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as the sound of
-      Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with quick but
-      stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the willows, he
-      skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the sheepfolds lay, and
-      then turned up to approach the corral from the farther side. There was no
-      light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They were all asleep. That was good.
-      Well Alessandro knew how sound they slept; many a night while he slept
-      there with them he had walked twice over their bodies as they lay
-      stretched on skins on the floor,&mdash;out and in without rousing them. If
-      only Baba would not give a loud whinny. leaning on the corral-fence,
-      Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible whistle. The horses were all in a
-      group together at the farther end of the corral. At the sound there was a
-      slight movement in the group; and one of them turned and came a pace or
-      two toward Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I believe that is Baba himself,&rdquo; thought Alessandro; and he made another
-      low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he suspected
-      some mischief.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Baba,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any dog;
-      knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed
-      instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution.
-      If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little
-      more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the
-      fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and
-      giving soft whinnying sighs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hush! hush! Baba,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a
-      human being. &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper
-      rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as soon
-      as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still by
-      Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself, spite
-      of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning as to
-      how Baba had managed to get out of the corral.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro had
-      hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get the
-      saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things hung on
-      pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in Southern
-      California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate, as any
-      Signal Service Report could be,&mdash;a floor and a roof; no walls, only
-      corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large scale
-      are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The longer he
-      thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the ground
-      here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving you.
-      Come, Baba!&rdquo; and he struck down the hill again, the horse following him
-      softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run, with his
-      hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few moments they
-      were safe in the willow copse, where Alessandro's poor pony was tethered.
-      Fastening Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him on the neck,
-      pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, &ldquo;Good Baba, stay here till
-      the Senorita comes.&rdquo; Baba whinnied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!&rdquo; thought
-      Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He felt
-      strong now,&mdash;felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy
-      thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses
-      had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the
-      ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn,
-      several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his adventure;
-      every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept
-      a few paces more. As he neared the corner where Ramona's saddle always
-      hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, Luigo slept on the barn
-      floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Groping in the darkness,
-      Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt for the saddle, found it,
-      lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the ground again, drawing the saddle
-      along after him. Not a sound had he made, that the most watchful of
-      sheep-dogs could hear.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!&rdquo; said Alessandro to
-      himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and,
-      springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. It
-      was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for the
-      rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in comfort.
-      To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba would carry
-      them both, and never know it; and it might come to that, Alessandro
-      thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was stretched
-      out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in scornful
-      wonder at this strange new associate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The saints be praised!&rdquo; thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to wait.
-      &ldquo;This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be
-      best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek a
-      new home?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay each
-      plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to San Diego,
-      to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard ride; five
-      for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on the ways Ah!
-      Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel would
-      give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro remembered his own
-      violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay in its case on a
-      table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it possible? No, of
-      course it could not be possible that the Senorita would think to bring it.
-      What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro was sure.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more
-      and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, the
-      darkness dense. &ldquo;It must have been the saints, too, that brought me on a
-      night when there was no moon,&rdquo; he thought; and then he said again, devout
-      and simple-minded man that he was. &ldquo;They mean to protect my Senorita; they
-      will let me take care of her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had
-      reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her,
-      Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had
-      given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she had
-      not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have known
-      that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have watched
-      to see what it meant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda,
-      sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not
-      late.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her
-      windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's
-      feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and
-      prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where
-      to go.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know she will! I am sure she will!&rdquo; whispered Ramona to herself as she
-      rose from her knees.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe
-      should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she
-      wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago, when
-      she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two of
-      the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of
-      burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and are
-      strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are gathered
-      at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the forehead. In
-      these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease, heavier loads
-      than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona recollected these, she
-      had been perplexed to know how she should carry the things which she had
-      made up her mind it would be right for her to take,&mdash;only a few;
-      simply necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls; the new altar-cloth,
-      and two changes of clothes; that would not be a great deal; she had a
-      right to so much, she thought, now that she had seen the jewels in the
-      Senora's keeping. &ldquo;I will tell Father Salvierderra exactly what I took,&rdquo;
-       she thought, &ldquo;and ask him if it was too much.&rdquo; She did not like to think
-      that all these clothes she must take had been paid for with the Senora
-      Moreno's money.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What would
-      life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los Angeles,
-      he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had devised
-      several ways by which they could both earn money.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too;
-      wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt he
-      looked. &ldquo;Starving,&rdquo; he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And she had
-      sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good food thrown
-      to the dogs to eat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that before
-      Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona dared feel
-      sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was dark; it was
-      past midnight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The violin first!&rdquo; she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and
-      through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it in
-      shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then she stole
-      out, with this net on her back, &ldquo;like a true Indian woman as I am,&rdquo; she
-      said, almost gayly, to herself,&mdash;through the court-yard, around the
-      southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows, where
-      she laid down her load, and went back for the second.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold meat.
-      She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's possessions
-      as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made several journeys
-      to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her store. Wine,
-      luckily, she found in the dining-room,&mdash;two full bottles; also milk,
-      which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall in the
-      veranda.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's
-      breathing. &ldquo;How can I go without bidding him good-by?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How can
-      I?&rdquo; and she stood irresolute.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He has done
-      all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for
-      him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light would hardly
-      be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the dining-room, knelt
-      on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and wrote:&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;DEAR FELIPE,&mdash;Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him
-      to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't
-      know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love you
-      always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;RAMONA.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into her
-      room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house. From her
-      window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she stretched out her
-      arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just over Felipe's feet.
-      There was a risk that the Senora would come out in the morning, before
-      Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk she would take.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Farewell, dear Felipe!&rdquo; she whispered, under her breath, as she turned
-      from the window.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the
-      upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange
-      going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came
-      bounding down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin, I am lost!&rdquo; thought Ramona; but, crouching on the ground,
-      she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a
-      piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it, wagging his
-      tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, she picked up her load
-      again, and still fondling him, said, &ldquo;Come on, Capitan!&rdquo; It was her last
-      chance. If he barked again, somebody would be waked; if he went by her
-      side quietly, she might escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her
-      forehead as she took her first step cautiously. The dog followed. She
-      quickened her pace; he trotted along, still smelling the meat in the net.
-      When she reached the willows, she halted, debating whether she should give
-      him a large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was eating it, or
-      whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided on the latter
-      course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was safe now. She
-      turned, and looked back towards the house; all was dark and still. She
-      could hardly see its outline. A great wave of emotion swept over her. It
-      was the only home she had ever known. All she had experienced of
-      happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had been there,&mdash;Felipe, Father
-      Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if
-      she could have once more prayed in the chapel! Who would put fresh flowers
-      and ferns in the chapel now? How Felipe would miss her, when he knelt
-      before the altar! For fourteen years she had knelt by his side. And the
-      Senora,&mdash;the hard, cold Senora! She would alone be glad. Everybody
-      else would be sorry. &ldquo;They will all be sorry I have gone,&mdash;all but
-      the Senora! I wish it had been so that I could have bidden them all
-      good-by, and had them all bid me good-by, and wish us good fortune!&rdquo;
-       thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a long sigh, and, turning her
-      back on her home, went forward in the path she had chosen.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. &ldquo;Will you come with me,
-      Capitan?&rdquo; she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three
-      short, sharp notes of delight. &ldquo;Good Capitan, come! They will not miss him
-      out of so many,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;and it will always seem like something from
-      home, as long as I have Capitan.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing
-      slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension at
-      the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows at
-      this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into the
-      copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments more he
-      thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this bent and
-      slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling along
-      under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a collie as
-      Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. Presently he
-      saw the figure halt,&mdash;drop part of its burden.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; came in a sweet, low call.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He bounded like a deer, crying, &ldquo;My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be
-      you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona laughed. &ldquo;Do you remember the day you showed me how the Indian
-      women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I did not think then
-      I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, Alessandro. It isn't the
-      weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have carried them much farther!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, you had no basket to cover the head,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, as he threw
-      up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In doing
-      so, he felt the violin-case.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is it the violin?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;My blessed one, where did you get it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Off the table in Felipe's room,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;I knew you would rather
-      have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; it seemed
-      nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to carry. Will it be
-      too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can walk. And see,
-      Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring him, to keep
-      him still. Can't he go with us?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast, licking
-      his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and
-      affection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times
-      heard him do this. It frightened her. &ldquo;Why do you laugh, Alessandro?&rdquo; she
-      said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To think what I have to show you, my Senorita,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Look here;&rdquo; and
-      turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at the
-      first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end of his
-      lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he perceived
-      Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you not glad, Senorita?&rdquo; cried Alessandro, aghast. &ldquo;Is it not your
-      own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony
-      can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I thought it would be joy to
-      you to have Baba.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, it is! it is!&rdquo; sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. &ldquo;It is a
-      miracle,&mdash;a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!&rdquo; she
-      cried, for the first time observing that. &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; in an awe-struck
-      whisper, &ldquo;did the saints send him? Did you find him here?&rdquo; It would have
-      seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think the saints helped me to bring him,&rdquo; answered Alessandro,
-      seriously, &ldquo;or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near the
-      corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at my
-      word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, Senorita. It is
-      no harm to take him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no!&rdquo; answered Ramona. &ldquo;He is more mine than anything else I had; for
-      it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just stand on his legs; he
-      was only two days old; and I have fed him out of my hand every day till
-      now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we will never be parted, never!&rdquo; and
-      she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek against it
-      lovingly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the saddle.
-      &ldquo;Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so heavy as my
-      Senorita thought,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It was the weight on the forehead, with
-      nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her pain.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. &ldquo;We must make all the
-      speed we can, dearest Senorita,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;for a few hours. Then we will
-      rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can hide safely all day.
-      We will journey only by night, lest they pursue us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They will not,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;There is no danger. The Senora said she
-      should do nothing. 'Nothing!'&rdquo; she repeated, in a bitter tone. &ldquo;That is
-      what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help us. He would have
-      liked to have you stay with us; but all he could get was, that she would
-      do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. They will wish never to hear of
-      me again. I mean, the Senora will wish never to hear of me. Felipe will be
-      sorry. Felipe is very good, Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      They were all ready now,&mdash;Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets
-      swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his
-      tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but
-      Ramona's heart was full of joy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know why it is, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I should think I would be
-      afraid, but I have not the least fear,&mdash;not the least; not of
-      anything that can come, Alessandro,&rdquo; she reiterated with emphasis. &ldquo;Is it
-      not strange?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita,&rdquo; he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he walked
-      close at her side. &ldquo;It is strange. I am afraid,&mdash;afraid for you, my
-      Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the saints
-      will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love you,
-      Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you never going to call me by my name?&rdquo; asked Ramona. &ldquo;I hate your
-      calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she
-      was displeased.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will never speak the word again!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;The saints forbid
-      I should speak to you in the words of that woman!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can't you say Ramona?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him
-      difficult to say Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?&rdquo; she
-      continued. &ldquo;The Indian name,&mdash;the name of the dove?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majel,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you since
-      the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me, and two
-      wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark; and I said
-      to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the wood-dove's
-      voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in the earth; and
-      the wood-dove is true to one mate always&mdash;&rdquo; He stopped.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As I to you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and
-      resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his
-      mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had ever
-      before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close that he
-      touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it had been
-      anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it even now.
-      But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she had
-      stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. Did that
-      mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted accordingly;
-      turning his head round to the right, and looking back to see what came of
-      it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips
-      together,&mdash;what could Baba think? As mischievously as if he had been
-      a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore the lovers
-      apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,&mdash;Alessandro running; the
-      poor Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for
-      many a day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majel is my name, then,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;is it? It is a sweet sound, but I
-      would like it better Majella. Call me Majella.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That will be good,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;for the reason that never before
-      had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to say Majella. I
-      know not why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my tongue.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because it was to be that you should call me Majella,&rdquo; said Ramona.
-      &ldquo;Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora called
-      me by&mdash;and dear Felipe too,&rdquo; she added thoughtfully. &ldquo;He would not
-      know me by my new name. I would like to have him always call me Ramona.
-      But for all the rest of the world I am Majella, now,&mdash;Alessandro's
-      Majel!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XVI
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile,
-      Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began
-      turning him round and round in the road.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We will not go any farther in the road,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I must conceal our
-      tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces.&rdquo; The obedient Baba
-      backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the Indian
-      pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under Alessandro's
-      skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and stood waiting
-      further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was no trail to show
-      where they had left the road.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles,
-      cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the tracks
-      for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much bewildered as to
-      what it all meant, Alessandro said: &ldquo;I think now they will never discover
-      where we left the road. They will ride along, seeing our tracks plain, and
-      then they will be so sure that we would have kept straight on, that they
-      will not notice for a time; and when they do, they will never be able to
-      see where the trail ended. And now my Majella has a very hard ride before
-      her. Will she be afraid?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Afraid.&rdquo; laughed Ramona. &ldquo;Afraid,&mdash;on Baba, and with you!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for the day
-      in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to Temecula,&mdash;a
-      trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in this canon, they would
-      be safe from all possible pursuit. Alessandro did not in the least share
-      Ramona's confidence that no effort would be made to overtake them. To his
-      mind, it appeared certain that the Senora would never accept the situation
-      without making an attempt to recover at least the horse and the dog. &ldquo;She
-      can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen one of her horses,&rdquo; he thought
-      to himself bitterly; &ldquo;and everybody would believe her. Nobody would
-      believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's own horse.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it was
-      in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had grown
-      up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of thicket.
-      Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot once from
-      the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had found, to his
-      surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this canon that he had
-      brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona to arrange for the
-      decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with them, growing almost
-      in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so farther down, and to
-      reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to let himself down a sheer
-      wall of stone. The canon at its head was little more than a rift in the
-      rocks, and the stream which had its rise in it was only a trickling spring
-      at the beginning. It was this precious water, as well as the
-      inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided Alessandro to gain the
-      place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of granite would not have
-      seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did this wall of chaparral,
-      along which they rode, vainly searching for a break in it. It appeared to
-      Alessandro to have thickened and knit even since the last spring. At last
-      they made their way down a small side canon,&mdash;a sort of wing to the
-      main canon; a very few rods down this, and they were as hidden from view
-      from above as if the earth had swallowed them. The first red tints of the
-      dawn were coming. From the eastern horizon to the zenith, the whole sky
-      was like a dappled crimson fleece.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, what a lovely place.&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona. &ldquo;I am sure this was not a
-      hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. &ldquo;How little does the
-      wood-dove know of rough places!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;This is only the beginning;
-      hardly is it even the beginning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing from
-      sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction. Returning at
-      last, with a grave face, he said, &ldquo;Will Majella let me leave her here for
-      a little time? There is a way, but I can find it only on foot. I will not
-      be gone long. I know it is near.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing
-      sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. &ldquo;I must go, Majella,&rdquo; he
-      said with emphasis. &ldquo;We are in danger here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Go! go! Alessandro,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;But, oh, do not be long!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and snapping
-      before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the world.
-      Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her call.
-      All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments seemed
-      hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the sky, and the
-      crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard Alessandro's
-      steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have found the trail!&rdquo; he exclaimed; &ldquo;but we must climb up again out of
-      this; and it is too light. I like it not.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open
-      again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close to
-      the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way,
-      suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but the
-      boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them; still the
-      little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted with displeasure as
-      he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The thick-set, thorny branches
-      smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they caught the nets swung on
-      Baba's sides; presently these were held fast, and Baba began to rear and
-      kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro dismounted, cut the strings,
-      and put both the packages securely on the back of his own pony. &ldquo;I will
-      walk,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It was only a little way longer I would have ridden. I
-      shall lead Baba, where it is narrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Narrow,&rdquo; indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her
-      eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,&mdash;a stony,
-      crumbling path,&mdash;on the side of a precipice, down which the stones
-      rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as they passed;
-      at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. Only the
-      yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to keep
-      foothold on this precipice. Of these there were thousands; and their tall
-      flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set thick with the shining,
-      smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun. Below&mdash;hundreds
-      of feet below&mdash;lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of chaparral,
-      looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees lifted their
-      heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain glistened the
-      loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world, seen of but few
-      human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these fugitives this day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first
-      tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the horse
-      was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now, they
-      would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there was
-      running water, clear as crystal, and cold,&mdash;almost colder than one
-      could drink,&mdash;and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the
-      horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain
-      for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these
-      thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes full
-      of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been only on the
-      smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so fearless, that
-      he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she had dropped the
-      reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and sitting unsteadily
-      in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but she was nearly
-      beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly that Baba, whose
-      nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a stop that Ramona
-      uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail was
-      impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to ride.
-      Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Carita,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;I was stupid not to have told you how narrow the way
-      is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the ferns on
-      my back I brought for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, did you?&rdquo; gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from her
-      contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change of her
-      thoughts than she could have been by anything else. &ldquo;Did you? It is
-      frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel as if I were
-      on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my hands and knees, I
-      think I would like it better. Could I?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella,&rdquo; answered
-      Alessandro, sorrowfully. &ldquo;It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; I
-      will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the whole
-      band, for the sheep-shearing,&mdash;old Fernando on his horse all the
-      way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Really,&rdquo; said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, &ldquo;I will try not to be
-      so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an
-      hour yet before we stop.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the
-      bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only, as she
-      looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had come,&mdash;little
-      more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the rock,&mdash;she
-      shuddered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when they
-      arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did the sun
-      fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an exclamation
-      of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;when I came here
-      for the ferns, I wished to myself many times that you could see it. There
-      is not in all this country so beautiful a place. This is our first home,
-      my Majella,&rdquo; he added, in a tone almost solemn; and throwing his arms
-      around her, he drew her to his breast, with the first feeling of joy he
-      had experienced.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wish we could live here always,&rdquo; cried Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Would Majella be content?&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very,&rdquo; she answered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He sighed. &ldquo;There would not be land enough, to live here,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If
-      there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and never
-      see the face of a white man again!&rdquo; Already the instinct of the hunted and
-      wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's blood. &ldquo;But
-      there would be no food. We could not live here.&rdquo; Ramona's exclamation had
-      set Alessandro to thinking, however. &ldquo;Would Majella be content to stay
-      here three days now?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;There is grass enough for the horses for
-      that time. We should be very safe here; and I fear very much we should not
-      be safe on any road. I think, Majella, the Senora will send men after
-      Baba.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Baba!&rdquo; cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. &ldquo;My own horse! She would not
-      dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!&rdquo; But even as she
-      spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would dare anything; would
-      misrepresent anything; only too well Ramona knew what the very mention of
-      the phrase &ldquo;horse-stealing&rdquo; meant all through the country. She looked
-      piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, that is it, Majella,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If she sent men after Baba, there is
-      no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for you to say he
-      was yours. They would not believe you; and they might take me too, if the
-      Senora had told them to, and put me into Ventura jail.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She's just wicked enough to do it!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Let us not stir out of
-      this spot, Alessandro,&mdash;not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By
-      that time she would have given over looking for us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do not
-      know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, now, to
-      kill.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, earnestly,
-      &ldquo;and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!&rdquo; She was like a
-      child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for the
-      time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued. Pursuit
-      of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the reclaiming of
-      Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona thought of it,
-      the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would be likely to
-      commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly prevent it. It
-      was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that it would be shameful
-      to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay Ramona's hope.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note to Felipe
-      she had said that she supposed they were going to Father Salvierderra, it
-      would have saved both her and Alessandro much disquietude. Alessandro
-      would have known that men pursuing them, on that supposition, would have
-      gone straight down the river road to the sea, and struck northward along
-      the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to mention this; in fact, she
-      hardly recollected it after the first day. Alessandro had explained to her
-      his plan, which was to go by way of Temecula to San Diego, to be married
-      there by Father Gaspara, the priest of that parish, and then go to the
-      village or pueblo of San Pasquale, about fifteen miles northwest of San
-      Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's was the head man of this village, and had
-      many times begged him to come there to live; but Alessandro had steadily
-      refused, believing it to be his duty to remain at Temecula with his
-      father. San Pasquale was a regularly established pueblo, founded by a
-      number of the Indian neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of
-      the breaking up of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the
-      Governor of California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to
-      it. A paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the
-      Governor's own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of
-      the pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority
-      passed into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro
-      had spoken.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ysidro has that paper still,&rdquo; Alessandro said, &ldquo;and he thinks it will
-      keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are beginning
-      to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not believe, Majella, there
-      is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years we can perhaps stay there.
-      There are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley; it is much better than
-      Temecula, and Ysidro's people are much better off than ours were. They
-      have splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large wheat-fields. Ysidro's
-      house stands under a great fig-tree; they say it is the largest fig-tree
-      in the country.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, Alessandro,&rdquo; cried Ramona, &ldquo;why do you think it is not safe there,
-      if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;Perhaps it may be; but I have got the
-      feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the Americans. I don't
-      believe they will mind the paper.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers they
-      took away,&rdquo; said Ramona, thoughtfully. &ldquo;But Felipe said that was because
-      Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to give away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's just it,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Can't they say that same thing about
-      any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the Senora
-      couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all about
-      the law, and can speak the American language, what chance is there for us?
-      We can't take care of ourselves any better than the wild beasts can, my
-      Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me? Why did I let you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground,
-      and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It
-      was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought of
-      danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and
-      apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from
-      the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and
-      that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from her
-      inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things
-      Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was also
-      largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of her soul,&mdash;qualities
-      in her nature never yet tested; qualities of which she hardly knew so much
-      as the name, but which were to bear her steadfast and buoyant through many
-      sorrowful years.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro had
-      prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita and
-      ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon. Above
-      these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long; when it
-      was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona seated
-      herself on it, she exclaimed: &ldquo;Now I shall see how it feels to lie and
-      look up at the stars at night! Do you recollect, Alessandro, the night you
-      put Felipe's bed on the veranda, when you told me how beautiful it was to
-      lie at night out of doors and look up at the stars?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,&mdash;the first moment he had
-      ever dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. &ldquo;Yes, I remember
-      it, my Majella,&rdquo; he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, &ldquo;That was
-      the day Juan Can had told me that your mother was of my people; and that
-      was the night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps you might
-      some day love me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?&rdquo; said Ramona, seeing that
-      he spread no more boughs. &ldquo;You have made yourself no bed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro laughed. &ldquo;I need no bed,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;We think it is on our
-      mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella.
-      It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall not
-      sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, what are you afraid of?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella,&rdquo; he answered.
-      &ldquo;It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall
-      feel safer to watch to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was, that
-      he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him uneasiness.
-      They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the tracks of a
-      mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the curl of smoke
-      from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and keep it blazing all
-      night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast return.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not
-      strong,&rdquo; said Ramona, anxiously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am strong now, Majella,&rdquo; answered Alessandro. And indeed he did already
-      look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety. &ldquo;I am no
-      longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Will you lie on the fern-bed then?&rdquo; asked Ramona, gleefully.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would like the ground better,&rdquo; said honest Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona looked disappointed. &ldquo;That is very strange,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is not
-      so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by lying
-      on it,&rdquo; she continued, throwing herself down; &ldquo;but oh, how sweet, how
-      sweet it smells!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, there is spice-wood in it,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;I put it in at the head,
-      for Majella's pillow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept like a
-      child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear the crackling
-      of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of Capitan, who more
-      than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet him, made the canon
-      echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard the stealthy steps of
-      wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour she slept on. And hour
-      after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge sycamore-trunk, and
-      watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her face, he thought he
-      had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of calm repose insensibly
-      soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a saint, he thought; perhaps
-      it was as a saint of help and guidance, the Virgin was sending her to him
-      and his people. The darkness deepened, became blackness; only the red
-      gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying rifts, as the wind makes rifts
-      in black storm-clouds in the heavens. With the darkness, the stillness
-      also deepened. Nothing broke that, except an occasional motion of Baba or
-      the pony, or an alert signal from Capitan; then all seemed stiller than
-      ever. Alessandro felt as if God himself were in the canon. Countless times
-      in his life before he had lain in lonely places under the sky and watched
-      the night through, but he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it
-      was pain. What was to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the
-      next, and the next, all through the coming years? What was to come to this
-      beloved and loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so
-      trustful, guarded only by him,&mdash;by him, Alessandro, the exile,
-      fugitive, homeless man?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full of
-      them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened sense;
-      pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and replying, as
-      did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he watched under
-      the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,&mdash;&ldquo;Love?&rdquo; &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; &ldquo;Love?&rdquo;
-       &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; They comforted him still more now. &ldquo;They too have only each
-      other,&rdquo; he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning
-      twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the sycamores
-      caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in the dusk.
-      Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar sound of the
-      linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her instantly. Sitting up
-      bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed, &ldquo;Oh, is it morning
-      already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than we! Sing,
-      Alessandro,&rdquo; and she began the hymn:&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we too
-      sing.'&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sing not so loud, my Majel,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro, as her voice went
-      carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. &ldquo;There might be hunters near
-      who would hear;&rdquo; and he joined in with low and muffled tones.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than
-      before:&mdash;
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-     &ldquo;'Come, O sinners,
-     Come, and we will sing
-     Tender hymns
-     To our refuge,'&rdquo;
- </pre>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;My
-      Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints.&rdquo; And indeed he might have
-      been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in the
-      shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall of
-      fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in
-      tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with
-      devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of
-      sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun
-      she could not see.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hush, my love,&rdquo; she breathed rather than said. &ldquo;That would be a sin, if
-      you really thought it.
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-     'O beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven,'&rdquo;
- </pre>
-    <p>
-      she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking on
-      her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost
-      without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the
-      morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory
-      crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It had
-      belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father Salvierderra,
-      and by Father Salvierderra to the &ldquo;blessed child,&rdquo; Ramona, at her
-      confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not have
-      bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate heart it had
-      always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father Salvierderra's
-      love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted Peyri.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the
-      last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight shot
-      into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern crest,&mdash;shot
-      in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, lighted it; by a flash
-      as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the beads, on Ramona's hands,
-      and on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a flash, and it was gone!
-      To both Ramona and Alessandro it came like an omen,&mdash;like a message
-      straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better messenger,&mdash;she,
-      the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; mother of the Christ to
-      whom they prayed, through her,&mdash;mother, for whose sake He would
-      regard their least cry,&mdash;could she choose better messenger, or
-      swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would help them in
-      these sore straits.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be
-      found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled
-      the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the
-      wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XVII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to
-      Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter.
-      Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more for
-      man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to do,
-      than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection, when by
-      weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an interval, to
-      her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of what he had
-      called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of superiority,
-      makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! &ldquo;Whom the gods love, die
-      young,&rdquo; has been too long carelessly said. It is not true, in the sense in
-      which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell with nature; if they
-      are ever lured away, return to her before they are old. Then, however long
-      they live before they die, they die young. Whom the gods love, live young&mdash;forever.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian,
-      Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted
-      look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they
-      meant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?&rdquo;
-       she said, in a tone of pleasure. &ldquo;I see that yon tall yucca has gone in
-      shadow sooner than it did yesterday.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And, &ldquo;What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not know there
-      were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught us some names; but they
-      were hard, and I forgot them, We might name them for ourselves, if we
-      lived here. They would be our relations.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And, &ldquo;For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my Alessandro, and
-      do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do nothing for
-      a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the while.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And, &ldquo;Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, Alessandro.
-      It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy,
-      but never too glad, I think, when he lives with nothing between him and
-      the sky, and the saints can see him every minute.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And, &ldquo;I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the air,
-      Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it because
-      I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how
-      full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent;
-      it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable of
-      Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to say,
-      and said less eloquently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, &ldquo;You speak as the trees
-      speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying
-      anything!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This delighted Alessandro's very heart. &ldquo;And you, Majella,&rdquo; he exclaimed;
-      &ldquo;when you say that, you speak in the language of our people; you are as we
-      are.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,&mdash;happier than
-      she would have been made by any other praise or fondness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle.
-      The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was
-      already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who
-      wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to all
-      but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him away
-      from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and summoned
-      magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their command.
-      Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; but as she
-      vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,&mdash;a magic
-      golden apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other food. Day
-      after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple; and yet,
-      morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the golden fruit,
-      still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it; and when the Fairy
-      came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic boat, sailed away
-      with her, and never was seen in his kingdom again. It was only an
-      allegory, this legend,&mdash;a beautiful allegory, and true,&mdash;of love
-      and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now growing
-      strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and just as
-      strength-giving.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?&rdquo; said Ramona,
-      studying his countenance with loving care. &ldquo;I thought that night you would
-      die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your eyes shine, and your hand is
-      not hot! It is the blessed air; it has cured you, as it cured Felipe of
-      the fever.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella,&rdquo; replied
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw
-      you. It is not the air;&rdquo; and he looked at her with a gaze that said the
-      rest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up Baba,
-      saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon
-      Alessandro had said to her: &ldquo;To-night, Majella, we must go. There is not
-      grass enough for another day. We must go while the horses are strong. I
-      dare not lead them any farther down the canon to graze, for there is a
-      ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one of the man's cows feeding
-      near Baba.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the look
-      on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled afresh
-      in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and saw
-      Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were again
-      carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again the sense
-      of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an unbearable burden
-      on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his Majella?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in such
-      gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly rollicking
-      with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan, too, was gay.
-      He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing shade and cool water.
-      He longed for sheep. He did not understand this inactivity. The puzzled
-      look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than once, as he would come
-      and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing his eyes intently on her
-      face, as if he said in so many words, &ldquo;What in the world are you about in
-      this canon, and do not you ever intend to return home? Or if you will stay
-      here, why not keep sheep? Do you not see that I have nothing to do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We must ride all night, Majella,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;and lose no time. It
-      is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is it a canon?&rdquo; asked Ramona, hopefully.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It is
-      where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high hill.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Will it be safe there?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;though not so safe as here. There is no such
-      place as this in all the country.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And then where shall we go next?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is very near Temecula,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;We must go into Temecula, dear
-      Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me money
-      for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I would never go near the
-      place again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would like to see it, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said gently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, Majella!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;you would not. It is terrible; the
-      houses all unroofed,&mdash;all but my father's and Jose's. They were
-      shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only walls.
-      Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old woman ever had
-      the strength; they said she was like a fury. She said nobody should ever
-      live in those walls again; and she took a pole, and made a great hole in
-      one side, and then she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all her might,
-      till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be dreadful.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?&rdquo; she said
-      timidly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The saints forbid!&rdquo; he said solemnly. &ldquo;I think it would make me a
-      murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I should
-      kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of it!&rdquo; he added,
-      after a moment's silence; &ldquo;it takes the strength all out of my blood
-      again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And the word &ldquo;Temecula&rdquo; was not mentioned between them again until dusk
-      the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along between low, wooded
-      hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a green, marshy place, with a
-      little thread of trickling water, at which their horses stopped, and drank
-      thirstily; and Ramona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the
-      distance. &ldquo;Lights, Alessandro, lights!&rdquo; she exclaimed, pointing to them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Majella,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;it is Temecula,&rdquo; and springing off his pony
-      he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: &ldquo;I have
-      been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be done here. I do
-      not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If men have been sent out
-      to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is the place where
-      everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare not have you go there, Majella;
-      yet I must go. The only way I can get any money is from Mr. Hartsel.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I must wait somewhere while you go!&rdquo; said Ramona, her heart beating as
-      she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as
-      the sea. &ldquo;That is the only safe thing, Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think so too,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not you
-      be afraid?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the
-      other.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to you,
-      Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe home,&mdash;he
-      and Capitan.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility. Alessandro
-      had thought of everything. &ldquo;What could happen?&rdquo; she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the
-      horse,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you would not have the horse with you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How could they
-      take you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That mightn't make any difference,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;They might take
-      me, to make me tell where the horse was.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, Alessandro,&rdquo; sobbed Ramona, &ldquo;what shall we do!&rdquo; Then in another
-      second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, &ldquo;Alessandro, I know what I
-      will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I not
-      be safest there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is not the dead that will harm us. They would all
-      help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there while you go; and
-      if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr. Hartsel's after you. If
-      there are men of the Senora's there, they will know me; they will not dare
-      to touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish them. I will not be
-      afraid. And if they are ordered to take Baba, they can have him; we can
-      walk when the pony is tired.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her confidence was contagious. &ldquo;My wood-dove has in her breast the heart
-      of the lion,&rdquo; said Alessandro, fondly. &ldquo;We will do as she says. She is
-      wise;&rdquo; and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of the
-      graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, with one small gate of
-      wooden paling. As they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, &ldquo;The thieves have
-      taken the gate!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What could they have wanted with that?&rdquo; said Ramona
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To burn,&rdquo; he said doggedly, &ldquo;It was wood; but it was very little. They
-      might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the graves.
-      Ramona started.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fear nothing,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro. &ldquo;It must be one of our people. I am
-      glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was the
-      corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her;&rdquo; and leaving Ramona at
-      the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in the Luiseno
-      language, &ldquo;Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I, Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was spending
-      her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her husband's
-      in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the Americans were
-      there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her, Alessandro
-      returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side, he laid her
-      feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: &ldquo;Majella, I have told her all. She
-      cannot speak a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she says, that you
-      have come with me, and she will stay close by your side till I come back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all she
-      could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she could
-      see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less needful
-      to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona was pitying
-      her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her from the
-      saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face. Again she
-      drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to the corner
-      from which she had come. Ramona understood. &ldquo;She wants to show me her
-      husband's grave,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;She does not like to be away from it. I
-      will go with her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head
-      assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed her.
-      The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked by a
-      small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew each
-      inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly fell,
-      and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities under his
-      feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled earth of
-      the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona to the edge
-      of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both hands on her
-      heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into weeping, and again
-      clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast, to show her sympathy.
-      Carmena did not weep. She was long past that; and she felt for the moment
-      lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden sympathy of this stranger,&mdash;this
-      girl like herself, yet so different, so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena
-      was sure she must be. Had the saints sent her from heaven to Alessandro?
-      What did it mean? Carmena's bosom was heaving with the things she longed
-      to say and to ask; but all she could do was to press Ramona's hand again
-      and again, and occasionally lay her soft cheek upon it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the
-      graveyard?&rdquo; thought Ramona. &ldquo;What a comfort to this poor heart-broken
-      thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all fear. Holy Virgin! but
-      I had died of terror here all alone. Not that the dead would harm me; but
-      simply from the vast, silent plain, and the gloom.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate.
-      Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect to
-      find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting for
-      Alessandro to come.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a quick
-      run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the
-      graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near, he
-      saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. &ldquo;A light in our house!&rdquo;
-       he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. &ldquo;Those cursed robbers have gone
-      into it to live already!&rdquo; His blood seemed turning to fire. Ramona would
-      not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was full of
-      implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It was gone.
-      His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah! in
-      the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for him. Thoughts of
-      vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one hope, one passion,
-      for him. But he would at least see who were these dwellers in his father's
-      house. A fierce desire to see their faces burned within him. Why should he
-      thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But he must. He would see the new
-      home-life already begun on the grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the
-      window from which the light shone, he listened. He heard children's
-      voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the voice of a man, gruff and surly;
-      various household sounds also. It was evidently the supper-hour.
-      Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were on a level with the lowest
-      panes in the window, he looked in.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it a
-      man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby, sat
-      in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for its
-      supper. The room was in great confusion,&mdash;beds made on the floor,
-      open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in the corners;
-      evidently there were new-comers into the house. The window was open by an
-      inch. It had warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly Alessandro
-      recollected how he had put off from day to day the planing of that window
-      to make it shut tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could hear all that
-      was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a sensitive one,
-      and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance of a brute,&mdash;of
-      a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute creation, making their
-      names a unit of comparison for base traits which never one of them
-      possessed?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!&rdquo; said the
-      woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of what
-      she said. He listened eagerly. &ldquo;When will the next wagon get here?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; growled her husband. &ldquo;There's been a slide in that cursed
-      canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days yet.
-      Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's here now,
-      then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got everything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, John,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to put
-      the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can grumble, I take notice,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;That's about all you women
-      are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead in here. If
-      Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of Indians carry off
-      all their truck, we might have had that!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment.
-      Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she
-      exclaimed, &ldquo;Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take
-      their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know, if
-      it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this way!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!&rdquo; cried the man. He
-      was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at him
-      half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the children, began
-      feeding the baby. At that second the other child looked up, and catching
-      sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, cried out, &ldquo;There's a man
-      there! There, at the window!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had he
-      imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to this
-      mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With a fearful
-      oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, &ldquo;One of those damned Indians, I
-      expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day. We'll have to shoot two or
-      three of 'em yet, before we're rid of 'em!&rdquo; and he took his gun down from
-      the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it in his hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, don't fire, father, don't.&rdquo; cried the woman. &ldquo;They'll come and murder
-      us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!&rdquo; and she pulled him back by the
-      sleeve.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and
-      stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat
-      like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would
-      have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father,&rdquo; persisted the woman.
-      &ldquo;Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody there. Come
-      in; supper's gettin' all cold.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round here,&rdquo;
-       said the fiend. &ldquo;If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't know what
-      hurt him;&rdquo; and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken, unsteady
-      hand he fired. The bullet whistled away harmlessly into the empty
-      darkness. Hearkening a few moments, and hearing no cry, he hiccuped,
-      &ldquo;Mi-i-issed him that time,&rdquo; and went in to his supper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own
-      folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of
-      waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that
-      desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,&mdash;sliding
-      along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the
-      house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full speed
-      for Hartsel's.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere
-      except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it
-      gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region.
-      Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank at
-      Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind within a
-      radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its kind within
-      a much wider radius.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow&mdash;when he was sober; but as that
-      condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he sometimes came
-      near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody was afraid of
-      him,&mdash;wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. &ldquo;It was only a
-      question of time and occasion,&rdquo; they said, &ldquo;Hartsel's killing somebody
-      sooner or later;&rdquo; and it looked as if the time were drawing near fast.
-      But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful;
-      entertaining, too, to a degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his
-      chair till small hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk.
-      How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have
-      told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and phases of
-      the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. Here, in this
-      Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the country. He liked the wild
-      life, and, for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good word he spoke
-      for them to travellers who believed no good of the race, and evidently
-      listened with polite incredulity when he would say, as he often did: &ldquo;I've
-      never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do all their trading with
-      me. There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred dollars. If they
-      can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die, their relations
-      will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till they've got it all
-      paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer, maybe, or baskets or
-      mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're honester 'n the general run
-      of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans that are as poor's they are.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still lower
-      flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the kitchen,
-      and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough planks, a story
-      and a half high, the loft of which was one great dormitory well provided
-      with beds on the floor, but with no other article of bedroom furniture.
-      They who slept in this loft had no fastidious standards of personal
-      luxury. These two buildings, with some half-dozen out-houses of one sort
-      and another, stood in an enclosure surrounded by a low white picket fence,
-      which gave to the place a certain home-like look, spite of the neglected
-      condition of the ground, which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with
-      weeds and wild grass. A few plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots
-      and tin cans around the door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew
-      whether they made the place look less desolate or more so. But they were
-      token of a woman's hand, and of a nature which craved something more than
-      the unredeemed wilderness around her afforded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the store.
-      Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and he heard
-      loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around to the
-      rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened the
-      kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but
-      Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one dim
-      candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and
-      frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the men
-      who were noisily rollicking in the other house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs.
-      Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to
-      find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not
-      recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in
-      his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the
-      place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying, and
-      anything else he could do.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Run, Ramon,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so
-      dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all
-      these men to cook for;&rdquo; then turning to the table, she began cutting her
-      bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who silently
-      rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later, Alessandro
-      re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would have cost poor
-      old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing it down, on the
-      hearth, said, &ldquo;Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?&rdquo; she gave a scream of
-      surprise, and dropped her knife. &ldquo;Why, who&mdash;&rdquo; she began; then, seeing
-      his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she continued, &ldquo;Alessandro!
-      Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old Ramon! I thought you were
-      in Pachanga.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Pachanga!&rdquo; Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to
-      Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart
-      felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had
-      dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and
-      he did not raise his eyes as he replied; &ldquo;I have been in Pachanga. My
-      father is dead. I have buried him there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?&rdquo; cried the kindly woman, coming closer to
-      Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. &ldquo;I heard he was sick.&rdquo;
-       She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the time
-      of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two days
-      she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that she need
-      not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words. She was a
-      Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her
-      veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable now,
-      as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his shoulder, her
-      eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered! How well she
-      recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb bearing, his
-      handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You were away all summer, Alessandro?&rdquo; she said at last, turning back to
-      her work.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said: &ldquo;at the Senora Moreno's.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So I heard,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her son
-      grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here with a
-      drove of sheep once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, he is a man now,&rdquo; said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands
-      again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak,&rdquo; thought Mrs.
-      Hartsel. &ldquo;I'll just let him alone;&rdquo; and she spoke no more for some
-      moments.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized
-      him; at last he said wearily: &ldquo;I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr.
-      Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the company
-      that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two days. Oh,
-      Alessandro,&rdquo; she continued, bethinking herself, &ldquo;Jim's got your violin
-      here; Jose brought it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I know it,&rdquo; answered Alessandro. &ldquo;Jose told me; and that was one
-      thing I stopped for.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'll run and get it,&rdquo; she exclaimed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. &ldquo;I do not want it. I
-      thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not mine; it
-      was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My father said it
-      would bring a great deal of money. It is very old.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Indeed it is,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;one of those men in there was looking at it
-      last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe Jim when he
-      told him about its having come from the Mission.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Does he play? Will he buy it?&rdquo; cried Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know; I'll call Jim,&rdquo; she said; and running out she looked in at
-      the other door, saying, &ldquo;Jim! Jim!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face,
-      her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance.
-      Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises,
-      &ldquo;Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Till morning!&rdquo; A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. &ldquo;I
-      can't!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I must go on to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, what for?&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief
-      second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything to
-      her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and
-      Ramona's, the better.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I must be in San Diego to-morrow,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Got work there?&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes; that is, in San Pasquale,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and I ought to have been there
-      three days ago.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Mrs. Hartsel mused. &ldquo;Jim can't do anything to-night,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;that's
-      certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him. He could
-      not face one of these Americans who were &ldquo;coming in&rdquo; to his valley. Mrs.
-      Hartsel understood.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'll tell you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the kindly woman, &ldquo;I'll give you what
-      money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell the violin
-      to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back out of that, and
-      when you're along this way again you can have the rest. Jim'll make as
-      good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good friend to all of you,
-      Alessandro, when he's himself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man in
-      this country,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;He's about the only white man I do
-      trust!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat.
-      Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. &ldquo;Humph! Got more'n I thought I
-      had,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I knew
-      Jim'd be drunk before night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance of
-      those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs. Hartsel
-      counted them out on the table,&mdash;one, two, three, four, bright
-      five-dollar pieces.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is as much as I dare take,&rdquo; said Alessandro, when she put down the
-      fourth. &ldquo;Will you trust me for so much?&rdquo; he added sadly. &ldquo;You know I have
-      nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some work
-      to do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. &ldquo;It's a shame!&rdquo; she said,&mdash;&ldquo;a
-      shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, since it
-      happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? Yes, indeed.
-      Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of our lives.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'm glad he is dead,&rdquo; said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into his
-      handkerchief and put it into his bosom. &ldquo;But he was murdered, Mrs.
-      Hartsel,&mdash;murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into
-      him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's true.&rdquo; she exclaimed vehemently. &ldquo;I say so too; and so was Jose.
-      That's just what I said at the time,&mdash;that bullets would not be half
-      so inhuman!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room
-      burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling,
-      laughing, reeling into the kitchen.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian
-      here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!&rdquo; stammered Jim, making a lurch
-      towards the stove. The men behind caught him and saved him. Eyeing the
-      group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her body,
-      said: &ldquo;Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will bring
-      in your supper immediately. It is all ready.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back into
-      the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the table
-      and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro,&rdquo; whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as she
-      passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and
-      contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. &ldquo;You'd better go. There's no knowing
-      what they'll do next.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you not afraid?&rdquo; he said in a low tone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's
-      round somewhere,&mdash;he and the bull-pups; if worse comes to worse, I
-      can call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are always the worst to get
-      drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father,
-      and Jose, and Carmena's baby!&rdquo; thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly back
-      towards the graveyard. &ldquo;And Father Salvierderra says, God is good. It must
-      be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell long
-      on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too loudly. Putting
-      his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted handkerchief, he
-      thought: &ldquo;Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will buy food for many
-      days for my Majella and for Baba!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XVIII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona
-      would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the
-      graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer,
-      and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at
-      Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her
-      thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected
-      upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have made.
-      Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes which
-      might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was sitting,
-      helpless, in the midnight darkness,&mdash;Alessandro seized, tied, treated
-      as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to terrify the
-      men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she would ride boldly to
-      Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if she would go, and said in
-      the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word, but which yet somehow
-      conveyed Ramona's meaning, &ldquo;I must go! It is too long! I cannot wait
-      here!&rdquo; Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, and said in the San Luiseno
-      tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but which yet somehow conveyed
-      Carmena's meaning, &ldquo;O beloved lady, you must not go! Waiting is the only
-      safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He will come.&rdquo; The word
-      &ldquo;Alessandro&rdquo; was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said, wait; Carmena was right.
-      She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. It was strange how Ramona,
-      who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid of nothing, so long as
-      Alessandro was by her side, became timorous and wretched the instant he
-      was lost to her sight. When she first heard his steps coming, she quivered
-      with terror lest they might not be his. The next second she knew; and with
-      a glad cry, &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo; she bounded to him, dropping Baba's
-      reins.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding the
-      horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words. &ldquo;How she
-      loves Alessandro!&rdquo; thought the widowed Carmena. &ldquo;Will they leave him alive
-      to stay with her? It is better not to love!&rdquo; But there was no bitter envy
-      in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she went desolate. All
-      of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro. They had looked
-      forward to his being over them in his father's place. They knew his
-      goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majella, you tremble,&rdquo; said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around her.
-      &ldquo;You have feared! Yet you were not alone.&rdquo; He glanced at Carmena's
-      motionless figure, standing by Baba.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;and
-      I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just come
-      from Pachanga,&rdquo; he answered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,&rdquo;
-       continued Ramona. &ldquo;But she told me to wait.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She told you!&rdquo; repeated Alessandro. &ldquo;How did you understand her speech?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;She spoke in
-      your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not say
-      that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said, and
-      you would soon come.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. &ldquo;Did you say that?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Carmena.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words,&rdquo; he said
-      delightedly. &ldquo;She is one of us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Carmena, gravely, &ldquo;she is one of us.&rdquo; Then, taking Ramona's
-      hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire
-      prophecy, &ldquo;One of us, Alessandro! one of us!&rdquo; And as she gazed after their
-      retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the darkness,
-      she repeated the words again to herself,&mdash;&ldquo;One of us! one of us!
-      Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!&rdquo; and she crept back to her
-      husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them
-      directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting or
-      being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to the
-      north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past the place
-      where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and putting his
-      hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of ruined walls.
-      &ldquo;This was Antonio's house, Majella,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;I wish every house in
-      the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was right. The
-      Americans are living in my father's house, Majella,&rdquo; he went on, his
-      whisper growing thick with rage. &ldquo;That was what kept me so long. I was
-      looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I should
-      go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all dead!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. &ldquo;Living in
-      your house!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You saw them?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the
-      man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought
-      they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired. That
-      was what kept me so long.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground. A
-      few steps farther, and he tripped again. &ldquo;There is something caught round
-      his foot, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;It keeps moving.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, &ldquo;It's a
-      stake,&mdash;and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what&mdash;&rdquo; The
-      rest of his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run
-      swiftly on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and
-      there stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking
-      under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's
-      nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly a
-      second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, and
-      striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled the black
-      horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his voice: &ldquo;My
-      Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed have helped
-      us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a stake as that!
-      A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will gallop! Faster!
-      faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this cursed valley.
-      When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a trail they will
-      never find!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Like the wind galloped Benito,&mdash;Alessandro half lying on his back,
-      stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy:
-      which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And neck
-      by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their feet!
-      This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers. Not in all
-      the California herds could be found two superber horses than Benito and
-      Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of Alessandro. Ramona
-      was half terrified as she heard him still talking, talking to Benito. For
-      an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito and Alessandro knew every inch
-      of the ground. Then, just as they had descended into the deepest part of
-      the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined sharply to the left, and began
-      climbing the precipitous wall. &ldquo;Can you follow, dearest Majella?&rdquo; he
-      cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?&rdquo; she retorted,
-      pressing on closely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he
-      would have given Ramona trouble.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is only a little, rough like this, dear,&rdquo; called Alessandro, as he
-      leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; he
-      cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. &ldquo;Good! Majella! We have got the two
-      best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight
-      comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go
-      together splendidly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of the
-      canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from
-      underbrush. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;I can go from here to San Diego by
-      paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank it
-      in with delight. &ldquo;I taste salt in the air, Alessandro,&rdquo; she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, it is the sea,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;This canon leads straight to the sea. I
-      wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it is
-      still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play; and
-      you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the green
-      cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like wine in
-      one's head.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Cannot we go there?&rdquo; she said longingly. &ldquo;Would it not be safe?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I dare not,&rdquo; he answered regretfully. &ldquo;Not now, Majella; for on the
-      shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and there
-      is no danger?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Majella,&rdquo; he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, &ldquo;Will a
-      time ever come when there will be no danger?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a
-      succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down
-      many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and
-      rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little
-      more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their mouths
-      they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to a
-      quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach before
-      morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and
-      commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he had
-      found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he
-      believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into
-      San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale
-      that same night. &ldquo;All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,&rdquo; he
-      thought; &ldquo;but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have been
-      cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been
-      cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss
-      filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As Ramona
-      looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out to the
-      wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her into a
-      fairy-land.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What a beautiful world!&rdquo; she cried; and riding up so close to Benito that
-      she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: &ldquo;Do you not
-      think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful world as
-      this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was not
-      yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward from the
-      hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the light-house on
-      the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few moments more it
-      would be day. &ldquo;No, Majella, not here.&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;We must not stay. As soon
-      as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this upper coast-line as
-      far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees with all the speed we can
-      make.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the shelter
-      they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still remained,
-      and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the long drought,&mdash;a
-      scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with relish in each
-      other's company.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They like each other, those two,&rdquo; said Ramona, laughing, as she watched
-      them. &ldquo;They will be friends.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Alessandro, also smiling. &ldquo;Horses are friends, like men, and
-      can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's mare,
-      the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her; and she
-      was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a time I have
-      laughed to see it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Know you the priest at San Diego?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not well,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;He came seldom to Temecula when I was
-      there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from San
-      Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in great
-      terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there would not
-      have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent all his
-      people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but he would
-      have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. It was no
-      use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst thing, my
-      Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can we do? The
-      white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never been to
-      Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the San Juan
-      Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the starving
-      poor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A priest!&rdquo; ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay! a priest!&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;They are not all good,&mdash;not like
-      Father Salvierderra.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona,
-      involuntarily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro looked distressed. &ldquo;It would have been much more danger,
-      Majella,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and I had no knowledge of work I could do there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one
-      feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. &ldquo;Oh, this is much
-      better, really,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I did not mean what I said. It is only because
-      I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will tell him
-      what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is a Santa Inez Indian I know,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;who comes down
-      with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes to San
-      Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa Inez to
-      Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's house,
-      sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is always begging
-      me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not two days from
-      Santa Inez to Santa Barbara.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,&rdquo; sighed Ramona, &ldquo;when the
-      men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would be work
-      for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like palaces,
-      and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them; thousands
-      and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,&rdquo; replied
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;My father says that at some of them were dreadful things,
-      when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father
-      Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they would
-      all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it. And when
-      he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken, and the
-      Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you and I
-      have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen up to
-      keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for Mexico,
-      and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over this same
-      road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and my father
-      was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with him; they took
-      the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my father carried in
-      front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things of the altar, very
-      heavy. And many a time my father has told me the story, how they got to
-      San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed out to the ship in a
-      little boat; and not much more than on board was he, my father standing
-      like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved him so, when, lo! he heard
-      a great crying, and shouting, and trampling of horses' feet, and there
-      came galloping down to the water's edge three hundred of the Indians from
-      San Luis Rey, who had found out that the Father had gone to San Diego to
-      take ship, and they had ridden all night on his track, to fetch him back.
-      And when my father pointed to the ship, and told them he was already on
-      board, they set up a cry fit to bring the very sky down; and some of them
-      flung themselves into the sea, and swam out to the ship, and cried and
-      begged to be taken on board and go with him. And Father Peyri stood on the
-      deck, blessing them, and saying farewell, with the tears running on his
-      face; and one of the Indians&mdash;how they never knew&mdash;made shift to
-      climb up on the chains and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they
-      let him stay, and he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he
-      was all his life sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same
-      thing; but he was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so
-      unhappy at the Father's going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was it here, in this very harbor?&rdquo; asked Ramona, in breathless interest,
-      pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a broad belt
-      framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, just there he sailed,&mdash;as that ship goes now,&rdquo; he exclaimed, as
-      a white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. &ldquo;But the ship
-      lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here.
-      It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high
-      lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they loved
-      it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, Alessandro,&rdquo; continued Ramona, &ldquo;were there really bad men at the
-      other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was too
-      much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has seemed
-      to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right that one
-      man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel Mission;
-      he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a whole band of
-      them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains, he went after
-      them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the pieces were
-      strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to know them by
-      again,&mdash;by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, who came
-      over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the Mission herself.
-      The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions; some of them
-      preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always had lived; and I
-      think they had a right to do that if they preferred, Majella. It was
-      stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know anything; but do
-      you not think they had the right?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature,&rdquo; replied the
-      pious Ramona. &ldquo;That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason the
-      Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians listen.
-      But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The old woman laughed when she told it,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;She said it was a
-      joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who tried
-      to crop my ears that way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Majella. It would not be polite,&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I don't believe it,&rdquo; replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. &ldquo;I don't
-      believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, and had
-      been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to resume
-      their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego, where
-      Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San Luis Rey,
-      and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they
-      reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low
-      adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio days,
-      but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those occupied by
-      the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite side of the way, in
-      a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,&mdash;a poverty-stricken little
-      place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed, decorated by a few coarse
-      pictures and by broken sconces of looking-glass, rescued in their
-      dilapidated condition from the Mission buildings, now gone utterly to
-      ruin. In these had been put handle-holders of common tin, in which a few
-      cheap candles dimly lighted the room. Everything about it was in unison
-      with the atmosphere of the place,&mdash;the most profoundly melancholy in
-      all Southern California. Here was the spot where that grand old
-      Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began his work, full of the devout and
-      ardent purpose to reclaim the wilderness and its peoples to his country
-      and his Church; on this very beach he went up and down for those first
-      terrible weeks, nursing the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the
-      dead, from the pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here
-      he baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And
-      the only traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes
-      were a pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less
-      than another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping
-      of that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her
-      graves.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a
-      Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been
-      from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place. He
-      had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he
-      could have been,&mdash;a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had
-      made him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded
-      the sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight
-      or to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation.
-      The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,&mdash;neither the look nor
-      the tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and
-      quick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his
-      priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which had
-      made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as he
-      found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds of
-      Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old, into
-      the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in their
-      shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after band, that
-      he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the Government
-      officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made equally
-      bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them, from
-      officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself to
-      greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, and
-      indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic
-      temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,&mdash;had said, &ldquo;It is of no
-      use; I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!&rdquo; and settling
-      down into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and
-      Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort
-      to do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or
-      twice a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were
-      brought to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black
-      beard, with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp
-      than the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe,
-      he would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke by
-      the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor, brooding,
-      ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine brick
-      church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to see builded,
-      and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San Diego's
-      repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone this hope and
-      dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it would be indeed a
-      waste of money to build a costly church on this site. Sentiment, however
-      sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to the demands of the
-      living. To build a church on the ground where Father Junipero first trod
-      and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent;
-      but there were other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was
-      right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a
-      sore one to Father Gaspara,&mdash;a daily cross, which he did not find
-      grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out, in
-      the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro,
-      as they rode into the silent plaza. &ldquo;Father Gaspara must be there;&rdquo; and
-      jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained window. &ldquo;A
-      marriage, Majella,&mdash;a marriage!&rdquo; he cried, hastily returning. &ldquo;This,
-      too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had
-      just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was
-      waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard,
-      where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom he
-      hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had been
-      neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father
-      was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he regarded
-      Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the least
-      prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had never
-      knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who had
-      supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked at
-      the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first
-      glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is all this!&rdquo; he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he
-      exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, &ldquo;Woman, are you an
-      Indian?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Father,&rdquo; answered Ramona, gently. &ldquo;My mother was an Indian.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah! half-breed!&rdquo; thought Father Gaspara. &ldquo;It is strange how sometimes one
-      of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no common
-      creature;&rdquo; and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy on his face
-      that he proceeded with the ceremony,&mdash;the other couple, a middle-aged
-      Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing quietly by, and
-      looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, impassive faces, as
-      if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms,
-      locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter
-      reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's
-      interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769,
-      and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the Irish
-      couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other, Alessandro,
-      still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, &ldquo;Will you ride, dear? It is but
-      a step.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,&rdquo; she replied; and
-      Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm, they
-      walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was still
-      more puzzled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady,&rdquo; he mused. &ldquo;What does it mean?
-      Who are they?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been used
-      to associations far superior to any which he had known in his Californian
-      life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that with which
-      Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in his parish. When
-      they entered his house, he again regarded them both attentively. Ramona
-      wore on her head the usual black shawl of the Mexican women. There was
-      nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in her figure or face. In the
-      dim light of the one candle,&mdash;Father Gaspara allowed himself no
-      luxuries,&mdash;the exquisite coloring of her skin and the deep blue of
-      her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure and dignified
-      bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as fine-looking Indian
-      men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke better Spanish than was
-      wont to be heard from Indians.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are you from?&rdquo; said the Father, as he held his pen poised in hand,
-      ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Temecula, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara dropped his pen. &ldquo;The village the Americans drove out the
-      other day?&rdquo; he cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Father.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, as
-      usual, in pacing the floor. &ldquo;Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all over,&rdquo; he
-      said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him their names
-      and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all
-      were ended or not. &ldquo;A burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen
-      yet in this land forsaken of God!&rdquo; cried the Father. &ldquo;I saw the
-      particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.&rdquo; Then, coming to a
-      halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: &ldquo;The paper said that the
-      Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff
-      took their cattle to do it. Was that true?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. &ldquo;What are you
-      going to do?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Where have you all gone? There were two hundred in
-      your village the last time I was there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Some have gone over into Pachanga,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;some to San
-      Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!&rdquo; stormed Father
-      Gaspara.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro did not understand the word &ldquo;philosophy,&rdquo; but he knew what the
-      Father meant. &ldquo;Yes, Father,&rdquo; he said doggedly. &ldquo;It is now twenty-one days
-      ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce,
-      black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry
-      invectives.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The United States Government will suffer for it!&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;It is a
-      Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see;
-      they will be visited with a curse,&mdash;a curse in their borders; their
-      sons and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these
-      vain words? My son, tell me your names again;&rdquo; and he seated himself once
-      more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. &ldquo;And the woman's?&rdquo;
-       he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, &ldquo;Majella.&rdquo;
-       What name should he give more?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, &ldquo;Majella. Majella Phail is
-      my name.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She pronounced the word &ldquo;Phail,&rdquo; slowly. It was new to her. She had never
-      seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to whom also it
-      was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two syllables, and so
-      wrote it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any
-      one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the
-      woman married under the name of &ldquo;Majella Fayeel&rdquo;?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no! Put up your money, son,&rdquo; said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro began
-      to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied. &ldquo;Put up
-      your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would the Church
-      had money to give you. Where are you going now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To San Pasquale, Father.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper,&rdquo; said
-      Father Gaspara. &ldquo;He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it may
-      be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a piece of
-      land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. &ldquo;How is that, Father?&rdquo;
-       he said. &ldquo;I do not know.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach,&rdquo; replied
-      Father Gaspara; &ldquo;and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motion
-      also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked out
-      your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you and see
-      that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell; but I myself
-      am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son! Farewell,
-      daughter!&rdquo; he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again getting the
-      better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down to his
-      long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but after
-      supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they returned
-      again, and lingered in his thoughts,&mdash;lingered strangely, it seemed
-      to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was something
-      unusual about the woman. &ldquo;I shall hear of them again, some day,&rdquo; he
-      thought. And he thought rightly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XIX
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly
-      through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road,
-      leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and they
-      forded it without difficulty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many
-      days,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;but that was in spring.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then it is well we came not at that time,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;All the times
-      have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,&mdash;the dark nights, and the
-      streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!&rdquo; and she pointed
-      to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the sky. &ldquo;Not
-      big enough to do us any harm, however,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;But, dear Alessandro,
-      do you not think we are safe now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have been
-      all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel
-      that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should come there asking
-      for us, she would understand, I think, and keep a still tongue. She would
-      keep harm from us if she could.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa,
-      or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve
-      miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow valley,&mdash;the
-      Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of their few abortive
-      efforts to repel the American forces.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, Majella,&rdquo;
-       said Alessandro. &ldquo;I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked up in the
-      ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and thought if there
-      should come another war against the Americans, I would fire them again, if
-      I could. Does Senor Felipe think there is any likelihood that his people
-      will rise against them any more? If they would, they would have all the
-      Indians to help them, now. It would be a mercy if they might be driven out
-      of the land, Majella.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; sighed Majella. &ldquo;But there is no hope. I have heard the Senora
-      speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great
-      riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they will
-      commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of their
-      murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for hate,
-      Alessandro,&mdash;for hate, or in anger; never for gold.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Indians, also,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;Never one Indian killed another,
-      yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella, they
-      are dogs!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage on
-      his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred which would
-      never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him impossible. The
-      name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;There must
-      be some that are honest; do you not think so?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are they, then,&rdquo; he cried fiercely,&mdash;&ldquo;the ones who are good?
-      Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in
-      disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished them. If
-      there are Americans who are good, who will not cheat and kill, why do they
-      not send after these robbers and punish them? And how is it that they make
-      laws which cheat? It was the American law which took Temecula away from
-      us, and gave it to those men! The law was on the side of the thieves. No,
-      Majella, it is a people that steals! That is their name,&mdash;a people
-      that steals, and that kills for money. Is not that a good name for a great
-      people to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea, they are so
-      many?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is what the Senora says,&rdquo; answered Ramona. &ldquo;She says they are all
-      thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next will come more
-      of them, with new laws, to take away more of her land. She had once more
-      than twice what she has now, Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;I know it. My father has told me. He was with Father
-      Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his to the
-      sea,&mdash;all that land we rode over the second night, Majella.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever saying:
-      'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from San Pasquale,
-      Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has
-      hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it; and
-      I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That is the
-      way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will be a poor
-      place for my Majella,&rdquo; he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at ease.
-      Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there, rather
-      than the most beautiful place in the world where you are not, Alessandro,&rdquo;
-       she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But my Majella loves things that are beautiful,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;She
-      has lived like a queen.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, Alessandro,&rdquo; merrily laughed Ramona, &ldquo;how little you know of the way
-      queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, only comfortable;
-      and any house you will build, I can make as comfortable as that was; it is
-      nothing but trouble to have one so large as the Senora's. Margarita used
-      to be tired to death, sweeping all those rooms in which nobody lived
-      except the blessed old San Luis Rey saints. Alessandro, if we could have
-      had just one statue, either Saint Francis or the Madonna, to bring back to
-      our house! That is what I would like better than all other things in the
-      world. It is beautiful to sleep with the Madonna close to your bed. She
-      speaks often to you in dreams.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered these
-      words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of some
-      other sphere had come to dwell by his side. &ldquo;I cannot find how to feel
-      towards the saints as you do, my Majella,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am afraid of them.
-      It must be because they love you, and do not love us. That is what I
-      believe, Majella. I believe they are displeased with us, and no longer
-      make mention of us in heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the
-      saints were ever doing,&mdash;praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and
-      Jesus. It is not possible, you see, that they could have been praying for
-      us, and yet such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do not
-      know how it is my people have displeased them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of
-      the saints, Alessandro,&rdquo; replied Ramona, earnestly. &ldquo;He has often told me
-      that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many times from
-      being wretched because the Senora would not love me. And, Alessandro,&rdquo; she
-      went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, &ldquo;even if nothing but
-      misfortune comes to people, that does not prove that the saints do not
-      love them; for when the saints were on earth themselves, look what they
-      suffered: martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at what holy Saint
-      Catharine endured, and the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what happens
-      to us here in this world that we can tell if the saints love us, or if we
-      will see the Blessed Virgin.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How can we tell, then?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;just as I knew
-      all the time, when you did not come,&mdash;I knew that you loved me. I
-      knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter what happens.
-      If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And you,&mdash;you will
-      know that I love you, the same.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Alessandro, reflectively, &ldquo;that is true. But, Majella, it is
-      not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a person
-      that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, not quite,&rdquo; said Ramona; &ldquo;not quite, about a saint; but one can for
-      the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my room
-      at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I was little I have
-      told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan what I should bring away
-      with us. She reminded me of many things I had forgotten, except for her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did you hear her speak?&rdquo; said Alessandro, awe-stricken.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words,&rdquo; replied Ramona,
-      confidently. &ldquo;You see when you sleep in the room with her, it is very
-      different from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh, I could
-      never be very unhappy with her in my room!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella,&rdquo; cried Alessandro, with
-      sacrilegious warmth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Ramona, &ldquo;never speak such a word. You would be struck
-      dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the thought was a sin.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house,&rdquo; said
-      Alessandro. &ldquo;It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of it,&mdash;if
-      it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things to
-      Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Again!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will
-      not leave me, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always
-      vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed
-      from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were on
-      wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child, crying
-      out in alarm, and clinging to the hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I must go,
-      to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. There is the
-      raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my father. Majella
-      will like to lie on that. My father believed it had great virtue.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Like that you made for Felipe?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so large
-      as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There are chairs,
-      too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine as those on your
-      veranda at home. They were given to my father. And music-books,&mdash;beautiful
-      parchment books! Oh, I hope those are not lost, Majella! If Jose had
-      lived, he would have looked after it all. But in the confusion, all the
-      things belonging to the village were thrown into wagons together, and no
-      one knew where anything was. But all the people knew my father's chairs
-      and the books of the music. If the Americans did not steal them,
-      everything will be safe. My people do not steal. There was never but one
-      thief in our village, and my father had him so whipped, he ran away and
-      never came back. I heard he was living in San Jacinto, and was a thief
-      yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think if it is in the blood to
-      be a thief, not even whipping will take it out, Majella.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Like the Americans,&rdquo; she said, half laughing, but with tears in the
-      voice. &ldquo;Whipping would not cure them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of the
-      hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two such
-      crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the three
-      valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of contour than
-      any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges of high
-      mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was overcast and
-      gray.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If it were spring, this would mean rain,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;but it cannot
-      rain, I think, now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; laughed Ramona, &ldquo;not till we get our house done. Will it be of
-      adobe, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are very
-      comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build one of
-      adobe.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not
-      let you, Alessandro, build another.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower temperament
-      and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she were all of a
-      sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside the pale of human
-      life,&mdash;outside and above it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You speak as the birds sing, my Majella,&rdquo; he said slowly. &ldquo;It was well to
-      name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you have.
-      She says only that she loves and waits.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I say that, too, Alessandro!&rdquo; replied Ramona, reaching out both her arms
-      towards him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and
-      Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side; and
-      Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of the
-      sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice, and
-      answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop when his
-      mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped now, and it
-      was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majella! Majella!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in his,
-      he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, &ldquo;if the saints
-      would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like those she was
-      telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved her! But what can
-      Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella gives all; Alessandro gives
-      nothing!&rdquo; and he bowed his forehead on her hands, before he put them back
-      gently on Baba's neck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this
-      distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? &ldquo;Alessandro can do one
-      thing,&rdquo; she said, insensibly falling into his mode of speaking,&mdash;&ldquo;one
-      thing for his Majella: never, never say that he has nothing to give her.
-      When he says that, he makes Majella a liar; for she has said that he is
-      all the world to her,&mdash;he himself all the world which she desires. Is
-      Majella a liar?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half anguish,
-      that Alessandro replied: &ldquo;Majella cannot lie. Majella is like the saints.
-      Alessandro is hers.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The
-      vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat
-      baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning
-      these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating the
-      yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women were
-      sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in the
-      village now; two large bands were away at work,&mdash;one at the autumn
-      sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San
-      Bernardino.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or of
-      cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men were
-      ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles of the
-      tule reeds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;These are some of the Temecula people,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;they are
-      building themselves new houses here. See those piles of bundles
-      darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought from
-      Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!&rdquo; he cried joyfully, as a man,
-      well-mounted, who had been riding from point to point in the village, came
-      galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he flung
-      himself from his horse. Alessandro did the same, and both running swiftly
-      towards each other till they met, they embraced silently. Ramona, riding
-      up, held out her hand, saying, as she did so, &ldquo;Ysidro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro
-      saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, &ldquo;Who is
-      this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My wife!&rdquo; answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. &ldquo;We were married last
-      night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora Moreno. We
-      will live in San Pasquale, if you have land for me, as you have said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and courteous
-      welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, &ldquo;It is well. There is
-      room. You are welcome.&rdquo; But when he heard the soft Spanish syllables in
-      which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro, translating her words to
-      him, said, &ldquo;Majel speaks only in the Spanish tongue, but she will learn
-      ours,&rdquo; a look of disquiet passed over his countenance. His heart feared
-      for Alessandro, and he said, &ldquo;Is she, then, not Indian? Whence got she the
-      name of Majel?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. &ldquo;Indian on the
-      mother's side!&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;and she belongs in heart to our people.
-      She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of the Virgin, Ysidro. She
-      will help us. The name Majel I have given her, for she is like the
-      wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her old name down forever, to bear this
-      new name in our tongue.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,&mdash;this and
-      her smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children were not
-      afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at sight of her
-      noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality they associated only
-      with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, what was more, saw by her
-      every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If Alessandro's,
-      theirs. She was one of them. Ramona would have been profoundly impressed
-      and touched, could she have heard them speaking among themselves about
-      her; wondering how it had come about that she, so beautiful, and nurtured
-      in the Moreno house, of which they all knew, should be Alessandro's loving
-      wife. It must be, they thought in their simplicity, that the saints had
-      sent it as an omen of good to the Indian people. Toward night they came,
-      bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged woman in the village to look at
-      her. She wished to see the beautiful stranger before the sun went down,
-      they said, because she was now so old she believed each night that before
-      morning her time would come to die. They also wished to hear the old
-      woman's verdict on her. When Alessandro saw them coming, he understood,
-      and made haste to explain it to Ramona. While he was yet speaking, the
-      procession arrived, and the aged woman in her strange litter was placed
-      silently on the ground in front of Ramona, who was sitting under Ysidro's
-      great fig-tree. Those who had borne her withdrew, and seated themselves a
-      few paces off. Alessandro spoke first. In a few words he told the old
-      woman of Ramona's birth, of their marriage, and of her new name of
-      adoption; then he said, &ldquo;Take her hand, dear Majella, if you feel no
-      fear.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand
-      outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender
-      reverence: &ldquo;Say to her for me, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that I bow down to
-      her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is the will of God
-      that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be worthy of such
-      reverence as these people all feel for her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this speech,
-      so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur of
-      pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made no
-      reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Tell her,&rdquo; continued Ramona, &ldquo;that I ask if there is anything I can do
-      for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,&rdquo;
-       thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. &ldquo;And say
-      that you will be her son,&rdquo; added Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had waited.
-      Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: &ldquo;It is well; I am your mother.
-      The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall dance when you
-      come. The daughter looks on her mother's face each day. I will go;&rdquo; and
-      making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried to her house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people seemed
-      to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not herself
-      sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so moved,&mdash;to
-      know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among primitive
-      peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and grandly dramatic;
-      but she was none the less stirred by them, because she could not analyze
-      or explain them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will go and see her every day,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;she shall be like my mother,
-      whom I never saw.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We must both go each day,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;What we have said is a
-      solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising
-      ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule
-      reeds and one of adobe,&mdash;the latter a comfortable little house of two
-      rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale.
-      The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near
-      throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs
-      shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was
-      fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with
-      adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes
-      a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses,
-      were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle
-      weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor
-      granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona
-      thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are they hard to make?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Can you make them, Alessandro? I
-      shall want many.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All you want, my Majella,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;We will go together to
-      get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. It is only two
-      days to make a large one.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No. Do not buy one,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;I wish everything in our house to be
-      made by ourselves.&rdquo; In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously striking one
-      of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of existence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky
-      chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having
-      gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work;
-      this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own
-      should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses
-      joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy
-      Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. It
-      looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: &ldquo;Can Majella
-      live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long; there are
-      adobes already made.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, &ldquo;I think it will be
-      very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in the
-      dove-cote!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majel!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on a
-      cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once
-      belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, &ldquo;1790,&rdquo; on
-      its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had
-      come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Think, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;this bell, no doubt, has rung many times
-      for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to the
-      village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. It will be like a
-      saint's statue in the house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues, Alessandro's
-      desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing; but he revolved
-      it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his shearers to San
-      Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old Mission buildings a
-      dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion. The San Fernando
-      church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church properties as were
-      left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not over-careful, and not in
-      the least devout. It would not trouble him to part with a saint or two,
-      Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to the saint either; on the
-      contrary, the greatest of reverence, since the statue was to be taken from
-      a place where no one cared for it, and brought into one where it would be
-      tenderly cherished, and worshipped every day. If only San Fernando were
-      not so far away, and the wooden saints so heavy! However, it should come
-      about yet. Majella should have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should
-      keep Alessandro from procuring for his Majel the few things that lay
-      within his power. But he held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter
-      gift, if she did not know it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and
-      secretly as if he had come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes
-      would dilate, if she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her
-      bedside; and how sure she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,&mdash;his
-      dear, devout Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more
-      credulous than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he,
-      untaught, had learned, in his solitude with nature.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a
-      piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled
-      him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred
-      sheep?&rdquo; said Ysidro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, &ldquo;you do not mean that! How is that? They
-      told me all our stock was taken by the Americans.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula,&rdquo; replied Ysidro; &ldquo;but in the
-      spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for him up
-      into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula pasture would
-      fall short, and the people there, who could not leave, must have their
-      cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,&mdash;I think, near fifty head;
-      and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of
-      sheep,&mdash;a hundred, Ramon said; he herded them with ours all summer,
-      and he left a man up there with them. They will be down next week. It is
-      time they were sheared.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like a
-      deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the
-      little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He
-      was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out a
-      blessing. &ldquo;What are a handful of sheep to her!&rdquo; he thought.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. &ldquo;Majella! my
-      Majella! There are cattle&mdash;and sheep,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;The saints be
-      praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro,&rdquo; replied Ramona,
-      gently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You do not wonder! You do not ask!&rdquo; he cried, astonished at her calm.
-      &ldquo;Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the skies?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nay, not as our eyes would see,&rdquo; she answered; &ldquo;but the holy ones who
-      live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. Whence came
-      these cattle, and how are they ours?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When he told her, her face grew solemn. &ldquo;Do you remember that night in the
-      willows,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;when I was like one dying, because you would not
-      bring me with you? You had no faith that there would be food. And I told
-      you then that the saints never forsook those who loved them, and that God
-      would give food. And even at that moment, when you did not know it, there
-      were your cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains, in the keeping
-      of God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?&rdquo; and she threw her arms
-      around his neck and kissed him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is true,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;I will believe, after this, that the
-      saints love my Majella.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself:
-      &ldquo;Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said about the saints,
-      if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of food? It is
-      only for her that the saints pray. They are displeased with my people.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XX
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and
-      vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having been
-      beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood on the
-      south side of the valley,&mdash;too far, Ramona felt, from the blessed
-      bell; but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields any nearer, and
-      she could see the chapel, and the posts, and, on a clear day, the bell
-      itself. The house was small. &ldquo;Small to hold so much joy,&rdquo; she said, when
-      Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, &ldquo;It is small,
-      Majella,&mdash;too small;&rdquo; and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, the
-      size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. &ldquo;Too small,&rdquo; he repeated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro,&rdquo; she laughed; &ldquo;but quite
-      large enough to hold two persons.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had
-      arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as she
-      looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs and the
-      raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the statuette of
-      the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the wall, between
-      the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep enough to hold
-      small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept constantly growing
-      there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and re-wreathed the niche till
-      it looked like a bower. Below it hung her gold rosary and the ivory
-      Christ; and many a woman of the village, when she came to see Ramona,
-      asked permission to go into the bedroom and say her prayers there; so that
-      it finally came to be a sort of shrine for the whole village.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the
-      little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She
-      could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch.
-      But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them,
-      and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they would
-      not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They lived
-      in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees for them.
-      &ldquo;In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will come,&rdquo; Alessandro
-      said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part
-      of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming
-      implements,&mdash;a good wagon and harnesses, and a plough. Baba and
-      Benito, at first restive and indignant, soon made up their minds to work.
-      Ramona had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked to a brother.
-      In fact, except for Ramona's help, it would have been a question whether
-      even Alessandro could have made Baba work in harness. &ldquo;Good Baba!&rdquo; Ramona
-      said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his neck,&mdash;&ldquo;Good
-      Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and you are so strong!
-      Good Baba, do you love me?&rdquo; and with one hand in his mane, and her cheek,
-      every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up and down the first
-      furrows he ploughed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My Senorita!&rdquo; thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in pride,
-      as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he watched her
-      laughing face and blowing hair,&mdash;&ldquo;my Senorita!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There
-      was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro had
-      made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great outdoor
-      acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and lifted from
-      the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,&mdash;in this cradle,
-      on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white homespun blankets, lay
-      Ramona's baby, six months old, lusty, strong, and beautiful, as only
-      children born of great love and under healthful conditions can be. This
-      child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight; to Ramona's regret,&mdash;so
-      far as a loving mother can feel regret connected with her firstborn.
-      Ramona had wished for an Alessandro; but the disappointed wish faded out
-      of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed into her baby-girl's blue
-      eyes,&mdash;eyes so blue that their color was the first thing noticed by
-      each person who looked at her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Eyes of the sky,&rdquo; exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Like the mother's,&rdquo; said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an astonished
-      look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes, too, were
-      blue.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It is so. I never saw it;&rdquo; and he wondered in his
-      heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born
-      of an Indian mother.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Eyes of the sky,&rdquo; became at once the baby's name in the village; and
-      Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of so
-      calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The news
-      was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would hold
-      services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the new-born
-      babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night, Alessandro and
-      Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what should be her name.
-      Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name her Majella.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No! Never but one Majella,&rdquo; he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a sense
-      of vague fear, it was so solemn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They discussed &ldquo;Ramona,&rdquo; &ldquo;Isabella.&rdquo; Alessandro suggested Carmena. This
-      had been his mother's name.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in the
-      Temecula graveyard. &ldquo;Oh, no, no! Not that!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;It is ill-fated;&rdquo;
-       and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only association
-      with the name.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At last Alessandro said: &ldquo;The people have named her, I think, Majella.
-      Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never be called anything
-      but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let that name be her true one, then,&rdquo; said Ramona. And so it was settled;
-      and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms, and made the sign
-      of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with some difficulty the syllables
-      of the Indian name, which meant &ldquo;Blue Eyes,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Eyes of the Sky.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he
-      had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the
-      Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to
-      meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the
-      valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do
-      him the honor to stay with him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And indeed, Father,&rdquo; added Ysidro, &ldquo;you will be far better lodged and fed
-      than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all should be
-      done.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo; said the Father, musingly. &ldquo;Has he been long
-      married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Father,&rdquo; answered Ysidro. &ldquo;But little more than two years. They were
-      married by you, on their way from Temecula here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, ay. I remember,&rdquo; said Father Gaspara. &ldquo;I will come;&rdquo; and it was with
-      no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the couple that
-      had so strongly impressed him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining the
-      priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with her
-      cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra was
-      much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father
-      Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when he
-      said, &ldquo;But where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella, if we
-      give our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but you?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;I
-      will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;For two nights,
-      it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father sleep in the
-      house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of
-      gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's
-      bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad lace
-      on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright red
-      calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of green
-      leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,&mdash;all
-      made up a picture such as Father Gaspara had never before seen in his
-      pilgrimages among the Indian villages. He could not restrain an
-      ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he
-      exclaimed, &ldquo;Where got you that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is my wife's,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, proudly. &ldquo;It was given to her by
-      Father Salvierderra.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Father. &ldquo;He died the other day.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;That will be a
-      terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her
-      presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will make
-      her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. &ldquo;To be
-      sure, to be sure,&rdquo; he said absently; &ldquo;I will say nothing of it; but this
-      is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And this,&mdash;is
-      this not an altar-cloth?&rdquo; he added, lifting up the beautiful wrought
-      altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on the wall
-      below the Madonna's shrine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a
-      present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it to
-      him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she hears
-      that he is dead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared in
-      the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to
-      Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's
-      supper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I pray you tell her not,&rdquo; said Alessandro, under his breath; but it was
-      too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona exclaimed:&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to Father
-      Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave it
-      to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I was hoping to hear news of him
-      through you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I knew him,&mdash;not very well; it is long since I saw him,&rdquo;
-       stammered Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have told Ramona
-      the truth; she would have set that down to the secular priest's
-      indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but looking at
-      Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No shadow there ever
-      escaped her eye. &ldquo;What is it, Alessandro?&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Is it something
-      about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from one
-      to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona, laying
-      both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had learned
-      from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: &ldquo;You will not tell me!
-      You do not speak! Then he is dead!&rdquo; and she sank on her knees.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, my daughter, he is dead,&rdquo; said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than
-      that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. &ldquo;He died a month ago, at
-      Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to give you such
-      sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was very feeble, and he longed
-      to die, I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not wish to live.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only a
-      confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, &ldquo;a
-      month ago.&rdquo; She remained silent and motionless for some moments; then
-      rising, without speaking a word, or looking at either of the men, she
-      crossed the room and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common impulse,
-      both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood
-      together outside the door, the Father said, &ldquo;I would go back to Lomax's if
-      it were not so late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such
-      grief.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That would but be another grief, Father,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;She has been
-      full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very strong of soul. It
-      is she who makes me strong often, and not I who give strength to her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My faith, but the man is right,&rdquo; thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour
-      later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did not
-      know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour. It
-      wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to speak
-      to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the
-      valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's
-      name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. &ldquo;I cannot talk about him yet,
-      dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I never believed that he would die without giving us his
-      blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her the
-      next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away, and
-      spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered her
-      too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help them. She
-      had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since she came, and
-      no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she smiled not. Yet
-      there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready to be christened;
-      and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing for half an hour, and
-      from every corner of the valley the people were gathering, and Father
-      Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was praying before the altar; it
-      was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did Alessandro and Ramona kneel
-      apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken countenances, not even looking
-      glad when their baby laughed, and reached up her hands? Gradually it was
-      whispered about what had happened. Some one had got it from Antonio, of
-      Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then all the women's faces grew sad too.
-      They all had heard of Father Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to
-      the ivory Christ in Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and
-      taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word. The
-      gesture was more than any speech could have been.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips,
-      &ldquo;Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last
-      hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I heard very little,&rdquo; replied the Father, &ldquo;except that he had been feeble
-      for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of the night
-      kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; interrupted Ramona; &ldquo;that he always did.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And the last morning,&rdquo; continued the Father, &ldquo;the Brothers found him
-      there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to move; and
-      they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there they found, to
-      their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on the stones; and then
-      they took him to the Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed, and he
-      did not speak any more, and at noon he died.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank you very much, Father,&rdquo; said Ramona, without lifting her eyes from
-      the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, &ldquo;I am glad that I know
-      that he is dead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!&rdquo; mused Father
-      Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. &ldquo;There's none of them would look like
-      that if I were dead, I warrant me! There,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;I meant to have
-      asked Alessandro who this wife of his is! I don't believe she is a
-      Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out. She's had some
-      schooling somewhere, that's plain. She's quite superior to the general run
-      of them. Next time I come, I will find out about her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Next time!&rdquo; In what calendar are kept the records of those next times
-      which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again,
-      Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their
-      home.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life,
-      that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of the
-      knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when Alessandro
-      came in one noon with an expression on his face that terrified her;
-      seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his hands, and would
-      neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near crying from his
-      silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with a ghastly face, he
-      said in a hollow voice, &ldquo;It has begun!&rdquo; and buried his face again. Finally
-      Ramona's tears wrung from him the following story:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of
-      the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the
-      Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of hut
-      for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not need
-      the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He had
-      taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone to San
-      Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in the
-      interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent
-      agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having
-      expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished to
-      renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was his,
-      and he was coming out there to build a house, and live.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had an
-      angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The Doctor
-      said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United States
-      Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents in Los
-      Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington, to show
-      that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer in San
-      Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,&mdash;the old one from
-      the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San
-      Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have;
-      but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that such
-      a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very well when
-      the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that the Americans
-      owned it now; and everything was done by the American law now, not by the
-      Mexican law any more.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all,&rdquo; said Ysidro. &ldquo;Is
-      that what it means?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the
-      cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,&mdash;he could not
-      tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at Washington.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown
-      on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a
-      soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States
-      Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after
-      souls,&mdash;that was his business,&mdash;and let the Indian beggars
-      alone! &ldquo;Yes, that was what he said,&mdash;'the Indian beggars!' and so
-      they would be all beggars, presently.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice
-      was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with rage
-      and despair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do
-      nothing! We might better be dead!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had,&rdquo; said Ramona,
-      piteously. &ldquo;It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman,&rdquo; said Alessandro,
-      fiercely. &ldquo;Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the beginning.
-      To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show that the land is theirs.
-      We can do nothing, any more than the wild beasts. They are better than
-      we.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom. In
-      all the village councils,&mdash;and they were many and long now, for the
-      little community had been plunged into great anxiety and distress by this
-      Doctor Morong's affair,&mdash;Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To whatever
-      was proposed, he had but one reply: &ldquo;It is of no use. We can do nothing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve,&rdquo; he said one night,
-      bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him that they
-      should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the
-      headquarters of the Government officers were, and where they could learn
-      all about the new laws in regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him. &ldquo;What
-      more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the American
-      laws?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Is it not enough that you know they have made a law which
-      will take the land from Indians; from us who have owned it longer than any
-      can remember; land that our ancestors are buried in,&mdash;will take that
-      land and give it to themselves, and say it is theirs? Is it to hear this
-      again said in your face, and to see the man laugh who says it, like the
-      lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey to Los Angeles? I will not go!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los Angeles
-      priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently interpreted for
-      him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted all that the officials
-      had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as Alessandro in his bitterness
-      had said. They were not inhuman, and they felt sincere sympathy for this
-      man, representative of two hundred hard-working, industrious people, in
-      danger of being turned out of house and home. But they were very busy;
-      they had to say curtly, and in few words, all there was to be said: the
-      San Pasquale district was certainly the property of the United States
-      Government, and the lands were in market, to be filed on, and bought,
-      according to the homestead laws, These officials had neither authority nor
-      option in the matter. They were there simply to carry out instructions,
-      and obey orders.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were
-      beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the journey;
-      he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles priest had
-      promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington, to lay the
-      case before the head man there, and perhaps something would be done for
-      their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding along day after
-      day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the subject,&mdash;it
-      seemed incredible to him that the Government would permit such a village
-      as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at sunset; and looking
-      down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the morning of their arrival,
-      from the hillcrests at the west end of the valley, seeing the broad belt
-      of cultivated fields and orchards, the peaceful little hamlet of houses,
-      he groaned. &ldquo;If the people who make these laws could only see this
-      village, they would never turn us out, never! They can't know what is
-      being done. I am sure they can't know.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What did I tell you?&rdquo; cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and
-      reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. &ldquo;What did I tell you? I
-      saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come as you went, or
-      worse! I have been watching for you these two days. Another American has
-      come in with Morong in the canon; they are making corrals; they will keep
-      stock. You will see how long we have any pasture-lands in that end of the
-      valley. I drive all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell it for
-      what it will bring,&mdash;both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. You
-      will see.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office
-      authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: &ldquo;I wish to hear no more of it.
-      Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and my nose. I
-      think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the men who are
-      waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an American may speak truth!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all his
-      cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. &ldquo;It is better
-      than nothing,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They will not now be sold by the sheriff, like my
-      father's in Temecula.&rdquo; The money he got, he took to Father Gaspara.
-      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; he said huskily. &ldquo;I have sold all my stock. I would not wait for
-      the Americans to sell it for me, and take the money. I have not got much,
-      but it is better than nothing. It will make that we do not starve for one
-      year. Will you keep it for me, Father? I dare not have it in San Pasquale.
-      San Pasquale will be like Temecula,&mdash;it may be to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San
-      Diego, Alessandro cried: &ldquo;Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder! I
-      trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. Keep it for me,
-      Father, I pray you,&rdquo; and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What are your plans now?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Plans!&rdquo; repeated Alessandro,&mdash;&ldquo;plans, Father! Why should I make
-      plans? I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let me. You
-      saw our little house, Father!&rdquo; His voice broke as he said this. &ldquo;I have
-      large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off them, it will be
-      something; but my land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon as the
-      Americans see it, they will want it. Farewell, Father. I thank you for
-      keeping my money, and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro told
-      me. Farewell.&rdquo; And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift galloping
-      Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the
-      record,&rdquo; said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye back
-      over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father Gaspara's parish, that
-      the list took long to read. The entry of Alessandro's marriage was
-      blotted. The Father had been in haste that night. &ldquo;Alessandro Assis.
-      Majella Fa&mdash;&rdquo; No more could be read. The name meant nothing to Father
-      Gaspara. &ldquo;Clearly an Indian name,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;yet she seemed
-      superior in every way. I wonder where she got it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains
-      set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get in
-      as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early to
-      ploughing new fields,&mdash;all but Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I will plough
-      no more land for the robbers.&rdquo; But after his fields were all planted, and
-      the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the valley
-      wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was known, he said to
-      Ramona one morning, &ldquo;I think I will make one more field of wheat. There
-      will be a great yield this year. Maybe we will be left unmolested till the
-      harvest is over.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!&rdquo; said Ramona,
-      cheerily. &ldquo;You are always looking on the black side.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is no other but the black side, Majella,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Strain my
-      eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any more
-      harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we are lucky.
-      I have seen the white men riding up and down in the valley, and I found
-      some of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set up on my land
-      the other day; and I pulled them up and burned them to ashes. But I will
-      plough one more field this week; though, I know not why it is, my thoughts
-      go against it even now. But I will do it; and I will not come home till
-      night, Majella, for the field is too far to go and come twice. I shall be
-      the whole day ploughing.&rdquo; So saying, he stooped and kissed the baby, and
-      then kissing Ramona, went out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba
-      to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of
-      thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone a few
-      rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes
-      meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went
-      on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east.
-      Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too
-      disquieted. She could not keep back the tears.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How changed is Alessandro!&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;It terrifies me to see him
-      thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;&rdquo; and kneeling before the
-      shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and drawing the
-      baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her embroidery. Her
-      skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable source of income,
-      her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego merchants, and at
-      fairly good prices.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when,
-      glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment she
-      saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought,
-      &ldquo;There is no dinner! He said he would not come!&rdquo; and springing up, was
-      about to run to meet him, when she observed that he was not alone. A
-      short, thick-set man was walking by his side; they were talking earnestly.
-      It was a white man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped. She saw
-      Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the tule sheds in
-      the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white man also; they were
-      both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear. Motionless she stood,
-      straining eye and ear; she could hear nothing, but the gestures told much.
-      Had it come,&mdash;the thing Alessandro had said would come? Were they to
-      be driven out,&mdash;driven out this very day, when the Virgin had only
-      just now seemed to promise her help and protection?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her
-      breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in her
-      arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her, made an
-      imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went back to the
-      veranda and sat down to wait.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into
-      Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still
-      standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand,
-      Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he seemed
-      to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses' reins, came
-      slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again he made the same
-      authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she seated herself,
-      trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now sometimes afraid of
-      Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him, she dreaded, she knew not
-      what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had loved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in the
-      corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the house;
-      walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid spot on each
-      cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin. His eyes
-      glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw from his
-      pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and burst into a
-      laugh more terrible than any weeping,&mdash;a laugh which wrung from her
-      instantly, involuntarily, the cry, &ldquo;Oh, my Alessandro! my Alessandro! What
-      is it? Are you mad?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, my sweet Majel,&rdquo; he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging his arms
-      round her and the child together, drawing them so close to his breast that
-      the embrace hurt,&mdash;&ldquo;no, I am not mad; but I think I shall soon be!
-      What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, and of the fields,&mdash;of
-      all that was ours in San Pasquale! To-morrow we will go out into the world
-      again. I will see if I can find a place the Americans do not want!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been
-      ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked up
-      and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped midway
-      in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro. Presently
-      he came toward him, and said roughly, &ldquo;Look here! Be off, will you? This
-      is my land. I'm going to build a house here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro had replied, &ldquo;This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours
-      to-day?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's tone
-      and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood to him in
-      the place of conscience and heart, and he said: &ldquo;Come, now, my good
-      fellow, you look like a reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear out,
-      will you, and not make me any trouble. You see the land's mine. I've got
-      all this land round here;&rdquo; and he waved his arm, describing a circle;
-      &ldquo;three hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and we're
-      coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last week.
-      It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make a fuss
-      about it. Don't you see?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months.
-      Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over
-      scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed to
-      be given him now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I see, Senor,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am not surprised. I knew it would come;
-      but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give you any
-      trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I have heard
-      all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands to the Americans.
-      We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, Senor.&rdquo; He paused.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at being
-      met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his tongue.
-      &ldquo;Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on fellows like you, that
-      are industrious, and have done some work on the land. But you see the
-      land's in the market; I've paid my money for it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The Senor is going to build a house?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; the man answered. &ldquo;I've got my family in San Diego, and I want to
-      get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till
-      she's in her own house. We're from the States, and she's been used to
-      having everything comfortable.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have a wife and child, Senor,&rdquo; said Alessandro, still in the same calm,
-      deliberate tone; &ldquo;and we have a very good house of two rooms. It would
-      save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How far is it?&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;I can't tell exactly where the boundaries
-      of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land,&rdquo;
-       replied Alessandro. &ldquo;My house is farther west than your stakes; and I have
-      large wheat-fields there, too,&mdash;many acres, Senor, all planted.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the
-      handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and
-      wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for that
-      purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat
-      whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all in
-      good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair means
-      or foul.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, Senor, you
-      can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you cannot build for
-      less than one hundred dollars. What will you give me for them?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose,&rdquo; said
-      the man, insolently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!&rdquo; in a brutal sneer. &ldquo;You
-      haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shall hinder, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;I shall burn down the sheds
-      and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the wheat is
-      reaped, I will burn that.&rdquo; Still in the same calm tone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What'll you take?&rdquo; said the man, sullenly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Two hundred dollars,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you,&rdquo; said the
-      man; &ldquo;and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know it,
-      for buying out an Indian!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San Diego.
-      You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to take
-      away my things in. The plough you may have. That is worth twenty.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'll do it,&rdquo; said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he
-      counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is that all right?&rdquo; he said, as he put down the last piece.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is the sum I said, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;Tomorrow, at noon,
-      you can come into the house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where will you go?&rdquo; asked the man, again slightly touched by Alessandro's
-      manner. &ldquo;Why don't you stay round here? I expect you could get work
-      enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; they'll want hands.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked them
-      back. &ldquo;I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here,&rdquo; he said;
-      and that ended the interview.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way,&rdquo; thought the man
-      from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. &ldquo;I expect
-      I should feel just so myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move about
-      the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his
-      restlessness was terrible to see. &ldquo;By sunrise, I would like to be off,&rdquo; he
-      said. &ldquo;It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours.&rdquo;
-       Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible
-      laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than
-      to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a
-      year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her
-      home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed voice,
-      of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed him
-      mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more feverish
-      in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled; everything,
-      except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now, we must cook food for the journey,&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are we going?&rdquo; said the weeping Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like
-      impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. &ldquo;Where? I know
-      not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At sunrise
-      we will start.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the
-      village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. &ldquo;There will
-      be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you do not speak to one. Why should
-      we have more tears? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro. He will
-      tell them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it, as
-      she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she could
-      not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn,
-      before a creature was stirring in the village,&mdash;the wagon piled high;
-      Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was
-      heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at
-      Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. He
-      knew all was wrong.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a
-      northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, &ldquo;Where does this road
-      lead, Alessandro?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To San Jacinto,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back,
-      Majella! Do not look back!&rdquo; he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming
-      eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. &ldquo;Do not look back! It is gone!
-      Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XXI
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno
-      house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had died
-      away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old
-      routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before.
-      Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very Mexican
-      whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done well;
-      there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,&mdash;a thing for which
-      the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan to hold
-      him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had not been
-      broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop would have
-      been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this Mexican; he had a
-      sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on the place had or
-      fancied some reason for being set against him; some from sympathy with
-      Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience; Margarita, most of
-      all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita, between remorse about her
-      young mistress and pique and disappointment about Alessandro, had become a
-      very unhappy girl; and her mother, instead of comforting or soothing her,
-      added to her misery by continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that
-      Ramona had left in the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing
-      came to fill it; there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned
-      by some one; mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion,
-      and regret. Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as
-      she said, or had she fled with Alessandro?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt
-      sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and
-      the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, &ldquo;and never a rail out
-      of its place.&rdquo; And the saddle, too! Ay, the smart lad! He had done the
-      best he could for the Senorita; but, Holy Virgin! what had got into the
-      Senorita to run off like that, with an Indian,&mdash;even Alessandro! The
-      fiends had bewitched her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every traveller,
-      every wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of Alessandro, beyond
-      the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been driven out of their
-      village, and that there was now not an Indian in the valley. There was a
-      rumor that Alessandro and his father had both died; but no one knew
-      anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had disappeared, that was all
-      there was of it,&mdash;disappeared, like any wild creatures, foxes or
-      coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid of them. But the
-      Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could not be! Heaven
-      forbid!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself.&rdquo; said Juan Can. &ldquo;It would be
-      some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who drove
-      her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, Luigo.&rdquo; In some of his
-      most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: &ldquo;There's none of you know
-      the truth about the Senorita but me! It's a hard hand the Senora's reared
-      her with, from the first. She's a wonderful woman, our Senora! She gets
-      power over one.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the
-      changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and
-      her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had
-      been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora
-      believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far
-      from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to
-      repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no
-      longer to her desirable.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet
-      dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had heard
-      the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was from
-      Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother opened
-      her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses as he
-      read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the night,
-      his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales seemed to
-      drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of it. A shame! a
-      cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had brought it on
-      Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt as if he had been
-      under a spell all along, not to have realized this. &ldquo;That's what I told my
-      mother!&rdquo; he groaned,&mdash;&ldquo;that it drove her to running away! Oh, my
-      sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go after them, and bring
-      them back;&rdquo; and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing himself, ran down the
-      veranda steps, to gain a little more time to think. He returned shortly,
-      to meet his mother standing in the doorway, with pale, affrighted face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;Ramona is not here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; he replied in an angry tone. &ldquo;That is what I told you we
-      should do,&mdash;drive her to running away with Alessandro!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;With Alessandro!&rdquo; interrupted the Senora.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Felipe,&mdash;&ldquo;with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps you
-      think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to have her
-      run away with him, than to be married to him here under our roof! I do
-      not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to breaking the girl's
-      heart! I am going after them, to fetch them back!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less
-      quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from
-      the skies she would not surrender till she must.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How know you that it is with Alessandro?&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because she has written it here!&rdquo; cried Felipe, defiantly holding up his
-      little note. &ldquo;She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She writes like
-      a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,&mdash;I, who drove her to
-      steal out of my house like a thief!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The phrase, &ldquo;my house,&rdquo; smote the Senora's ear like a note from some other
-      sphere, which indeed it was,&mdash;from the new world into which Felipe
-      had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to
-      reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round the
-      corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his crutches.
-      &ldquo;Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!&rdquo; they cried. &ldquo;Thieves have been
-      here in the night! Baba is gone,&mdash;Baba, and the Senorita's saddle.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to
-      Felipe, she said in a tone&mdash;what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if he
-      must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never forget,&mdash;&ldquo;As
-      you were saying, like a thief in the night!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen
-      Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his
-      mother, &ldquo;For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!&mdash;What is
-      that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come
-      down, after breakfast, and look at it;&rdquo; and turning his back on them, he
-      drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no
-      man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins, be
-      driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!&rdquo; retorted the
-      Senora, at white heat. &ldquo;You may rear as many Indian families as you please
-      under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!&rdquo; In spite of her
-      anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had burst into
-      tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No counterfeiting
-      now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within her, when those
-      words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the sight, Felipe flung
-      himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged hands as they lay
-      trembling in her lap. &ldquo;Mother mia,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;you will break my heart if
-      you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command me to do what a man may
-      not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can I see my sister a
-      homeless wanderer in the wilderness?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home,&rdquo; said the
-      Senora, regaining herself a little. &ldquo;Had they no plans? Spoke she not in
-      her letter of what they would do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first,&rdquo; he replied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was that
-      this would be the best possible thing which could happen. &ldquo;Father
-      Salvierderra will counsel them what to do,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;He could no doubt
-      establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect, you
-      will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any way you
-      like, but do not bring them here.&rdquo; She paused. &ldquo;Not until I am dead,
-      Felipe! It will not be long.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his hair,
-      and stroked it with passionate tenderness. &ldquo;My Felipe!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It was
-      a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mother! mother!&rdquo; he cried in anguish. &ldquo;I am yours,&mdash;wholly,
-      devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will not torture you more,&rdquo; she said wearily, in a feeble tone. &ldquo;I ask
-      only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that wretched
-      girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name never be
-      spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in the night!
-      Ay, a horse-thief!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe sprang to his feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mother.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as
-      soon as he was born!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror
-      and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many
-      days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over her
-      as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion. She
-      spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from despair.
-      The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would take long.
-      Yet she was dying, and she knew it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step
-      only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much
-      changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a
-      time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should find
-      them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he should
-      find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the possibility
-      of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help them, if need
-      be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as he lived.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, &ldquo;You are so strong
-      now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away long,&mdash;not
-      over a week,&rdquo; she understood, and with a deep sigh replied: &ldquo;I am not
-      strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey must be
-      taken, it is as well done now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      How was the Senora changed!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It must be, mother,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;or I would not leave you. I will set
-      off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and
-      there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. &ldquo;You must go, my son?&rdquo;
-       she asked at last.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I must, mother!&rdquo; and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her
-      again and again. &ldquo;Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell.&rdquo; And she
-      turned, that she might not see him go.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter.
-      Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along
-      the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to the
-      description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen any
-      such persons.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara
-      Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra
-      sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed
-      with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in each
-      hand. &ldquo;Welcome, my son!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Are all well? You find me very feeble
-      just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have
-      spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe
-      exclaimed: &ldquo;Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. &ldquo;Ramona!&rdquo; he cried.
-      &ldquo;Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing himself
-      no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he known how
-      well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character, and her almost
-      unlimited power over all persons around her. Father Salvierderra was not
-      shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for Alessandro. He regretted
-      it, but he did not think it shame, as the Senora had done. As Felipe
-      talked with him, he perceived even more clearly how bitter and unjust his
-      mother had been to Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He is a noble young man,&rdquo; said Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;His father was one
-      of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them,
-      Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps they may yet come.
-      When you find them, bear them my blessing, and say that I wish they would
-      come hither. I would like to give them my blessing before I die. Felipe, I
-      shall never leave Santa Barbara again. My time draws near.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly
-      listened to the Father's words. &ldquo;I will not tarry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I cannot
-      rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them,&rdquo; said the
-      Father. &ldquo;God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them,
-      Felipe;&rdquo; and he tottered into the church.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment and
-      pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and
-      Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention
-      of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to
-      look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days
-      before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. But
-      he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as the clew
-      seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse on his return
-      journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the beast; and before
-      he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature was near spent. At
-      the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save her strength. As he
-      was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he suddenly saw an Indian's
-      head peering over the ledge. He made signs to him to come down. The Indian
-      turned his head, and spoke to some one behind; one after another a score
-      of figures rose. They made signs to Felipe to come up. &ldquo;Poor things!&rdquo; he
-      thought; &ldquo;they are afraid.&rdquo; He shouted to them that his horse was too
-      tired to climb that wall; but if they would come down, he would give them
-      money, holding up a gold-piece. They consulted among themselves; presently
-      they began slowly descending, still halting at intervals, and looking
-      suspiciously at him. He held up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as
-      they could see his face distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no
-      enemy's face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply to
-      Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught the
-      word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian tongue.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;This woman has seen Alessandro,&rdquo; said the man.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; said Felipe, breathlessly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Temecula, two weeks ago,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ask her if he had any one with him,&rdquo; said Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;He was alone.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. &ldquo;Alone!&rdquo; What did this mean! He
-      reflected. The woman watched him. &ldquo;Is she sure he was alone; there was no
-      one with him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was he riding a big black horse?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, a white horse,&rdquo; answered the woman, promptly. &ldquo;A small white horse.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle
-      this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. &ldquo;Ask her if
-      she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All night,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;He spent the night where she did.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe despaired. &ldquo;Does she know where he is now?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What to do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She does not know.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did he say when he would come back?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Does she know him well?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As well as her own brother.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of
-      his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. &ldquo;I am
-      sorry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;&rdquo; and he
-      rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made as
-      if she would run after him, but checked herself. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;It
-      may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will not tell.
-      Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a
-      moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,&mdash;the breath of a
-      loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very ill when
-      she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely, sorrowing
-      Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away to the
-      North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from speaking
-      Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again. As soon as
-      he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never cease searching
-      till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when Felipe entered his
-      mother's presence, his first look in her face told him that he would not
-      leave her side again until he had laid her at rest in the tomb.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank God! you have come, Felipe,&rdquo; she said in a feeble voice. &ldquo;I had
-      begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am going
-      to leave you, my son;&rdquo; and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,&mdash;this
-      poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the consolations of
-      her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed incessantly, but got no
-      peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the Virgin's face and on the
-      saints; but all seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. &ldquo;If Father
-      Salvierderra would only come!&rdquo; she groaned. &ldquo;He could give me peace. If
-      only I can live till he comes again!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would
-      never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept.
-      Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished to
-      put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To whom
-      should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest within reach
-      that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her instructions, &ldquo;the
-      Church,&rdquo; she meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew, the Franciscans. The
-      Senora dared not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day by day these fretting
-      anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength, and her fever grew higher
-      and higher. She asked no questions as to the result of Felipe's journey,
-      and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At last he could bear it no
-      longer, and one day said, &ldquo;Mother, I found no trace of Ramona. I have not
-      the least idea where she is. The Father had not seen her or heard of her.
-      I fear she is dead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Better so,&rdquo; was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still
-      deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she
-      resolved, &ldquo;To-morrow I will tell Felipe;&rdquo; and when to-morrow came, she put
-      it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found herself
-      dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and then all would be
-      well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter, imploring him to be
-      brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was empowered to hire a
-      litter and four men to bring the Father gently and carefully all the way.
-      But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara, Father Salvierderra was too
-      feeble to be moved; too feeble even to write. He could write only by
-      amanuensis, and wrote, therefore, guardedly, sending her his blessing, and
-      saying that he hoped her foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping
-      of her friends. The Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month
-      after month had passed without tidings of his &ldquo;blessed child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the
-      Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year
-      had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother, and
-      haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured indeed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura
-      doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing
-      remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more all
-      would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so loved
-      and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness and
-      devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days, the
-      sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My adorable Felipe!&rdquo; she would murmur. &ldquo;What a son hast thou been!&rdquo; And,
-      &ldquo;My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?&rdquo; Felipe would reply, bowing
-      his head on her hands,&mdash;so wasted now, so white, so weak; those hands
-      which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year ago. Ah,
-      no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle Ramona, had she
-      seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times a look almost of
-      terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it? What would Felipe say?
-      At last the moment came. She had been with difficulty roused from a long
-      fainting; one more such would be the last, she knew,&mdash;knew even
-      better than those around her. As she regained consciousness, she gasped,
-      &ldquo;Felipe! Alone!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He understood, and waved the rest away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Alone!&rdquo; she said again, turning her eyes to the door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Leave the room,&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;all&mdash;wait outside;&rdquo; and he closed the
-      door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to go
-      out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery, rather
-      than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw with the
-      terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make him, even
-      after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue of
-      Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving upon
-      her, she said, &ldquo;Felipe&mdash;behind that statue&mdash;look!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, &ldquo;Nothing is there,
-      dearest mother. Be calm. I am here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry the
-      secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? &ldquo;No! no! Felipe&mdash;there
-      is a door there&mdash;secret door. Look! Open! I must tell you!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had
-      said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger,&rdquo; he said. As
-      he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright in
-      the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door, her
-      eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass his
-      lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing aloud
-      as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion, Felipe,
-      with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place. Even then a
-      premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son, to find behind
-      that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died with that look of
-      anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad duties of the next four
-      days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent of this premonition. The
-      funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could not hold the
-      quarter part of those who came, from far and near. Everybody wished to do
-      honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura and one from San Luis
-      Obispo were there. When all was done, they bore the Senora to the little
-      graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by the side of her husband and her
-      children; silent and still at last, the restless, passionate, proud, sad
-      heart! When, the night after the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe
-      going into his mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered, &ldquo;Oh, he must
-      not! He will break his heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: &ldquo;Dear Senor
-      Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But he put her gently by, saying, &ldquo;I would rather be here, good Marda;&rdquo;
-       and went in and locked the door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried
-      his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe the
-      tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the
-      jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was in
-      entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he sat
-      motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul was
-      wrung.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And she thought that shame, and not this!&rdquo; he said bitterly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find her,
-      and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it must
-      go to the Santa Barbara College.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church,&rdquo; he said.
-      &ldquo;But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh, shame!
-      oh, disgrace!&rdquo; From the grave in which Felipe had buried his mother now,
-      was no resurrection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and
-      wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling him
-      of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies would
-      belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to Juan
-      Canito, saying: &ldquo;I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything happens
-      to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger to Santa
-      Barbara.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?&rdquo; asked the old man, piteously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I cannot tell, Juan,&rdquo; replied Felipe. &ldquo;It may be only a short time; it
-      may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according to
-      your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in
-      charge.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!&rdquo; exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been
-      for two years. &ldquo;Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy
-      till now, I have had no thought except for your house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she known
-      the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of the
-      gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping behind
-      her body borne to burial.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;My God!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XXII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they
-      scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on
-      his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious
-      fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response.
-      After they were camped for the night, she said, &ldquo;Dear Alessandro, will you
-      not tell me where we are going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her
-      tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: &ldquo;My
-      Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what to
-      do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round as
-      leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I can be
-      going mad? It was enough to make me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could.
-      &ldquo;Dear Alessandro,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;let us go to Los Angeles, and not live with
-      the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at dances
-      sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing to do,
-      too. It would be better, I think.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He looked horror-stricken at the thought. &ldquo;Go live among the white
-      people!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;What does Majella think would become of one Indian, or
-      two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive us
-      out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh, Majella
-      is foolish!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino
-      and other places,&rdquo; she persisted. &ldquo;Why could not we do as they do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said bitterly, &ldquo;at work for whites; so they are, Majella has not
-      seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when the
-      Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father has
-      told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a white
-      man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella. And now
-      they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes in bad
-      flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if he will
-      not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to go, then.
-      One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not take a
-      bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the cheek with
-      his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any more! Oh,
-      Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill some man,
-      Majella, if I saw things like that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: &ldquo;If Majella would
-      not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, where no white man
-      has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was following a bear.
-      The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then, it was a fit
-      hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little green valley. We
-      could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, it is very small,
-      the valley. Majella would be afraid?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh, do
-      not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is there no
-      other Indian village you know?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is Saboba,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I had
-      thought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it is a
-      poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it.
-      Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. There
-      was a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,&mdash;Senor Ravallo;
-      he found the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is
-      one of the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said
-      they should never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons have
-      the estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise to the
-      Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back to
-      Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as they
-      did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley. We
-      will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, we will
-      stay.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San
-      Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky
-      over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern part
-      of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and golden.
-      It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto Mountain
-      shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of rubies. The glow
-      seemed preternatural.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Behold San Jacinto!&rdquo; cried Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona exclaimed in delight. &ldquo;It is an omen!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We are going into
-      the sunlight, out of the shadow;&rdquo; and she glanced back at the west, which
-      was of a slaty blackness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I like it not!&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;The shadow follows too fast!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and
-      tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses
-      across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He urged
-      the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much even for
-      Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded wagon.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we
-      could but reach it!&rdquo; groaned Alessandro. &ldquo;Majella, you and the child will
-      freeze.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She is warm on my breast,&rdquo; said Ramona; &ldquo;but, Alessandro, what ice in
-      this wind! It is like a knife at my back!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast
-      thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did,&rdquo; said Ramona, her teeth
-      chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would rather it blew than not,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;it will carry the
-      snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than in
-      the night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as
-      Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,&mdash;this strange
-      opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently the
-      rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The horses
-      stopped; refused to go on.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We are lost, if we stay here!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;Come, my Benito, come!&rdquo;
-       and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back into the
-      road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank within her.
-      She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she hold the baby
-      safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the wind had risen
-      again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like making headway
-      among whirling snow-drifts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We will die,&rdquo; thought Ramona. &ldquo;Perhaps it is as well!&rdquo; And that was the
-      last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken
-      and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, &ldquo;Sorry ter handle yer so
-      rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fire!&rdquo; Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put
-      the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried to
-      rise from her seat; but she could not move.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Set still! set still!&rdquo; said the strange voice. &ldquo;I'll jest carry the baby
-      ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up on yer
-      feet;&rdquo; and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously disturbed
-      from her warm sleep, began to cry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. &ldquo;The child is
-      alive! Majella!&rdquo; he called.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro,&rdquo; she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice like
-      a distant echo past him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral than
-      Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten travellers had
-      reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it. Just as he felt his
-      strength failing him, and had thought to himself, in almost the same
-      despairing words as Ramona, &ldquo;This will end all our troubles,&rdquo; he saw a
-      faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned the horses' heads towards
-      it. The ground was rough and broken, and more than once he had been in
-      danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed on, shouting at
-      intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and another light
-      appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards him,&mdash;a
-      lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, &ldquo;Wall, stranger, I allow
-      yer inter trouble,&rdquo; were as intelligible to Alessandro as if they had been
-      spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!&rdquo; thought Jeff Hyer to
-      himself. &ldquo;Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn't know
-      better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!&rdquo; And as he put the
-      crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, &ldquo;Ef I'd knowed
-      't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They're more ter hum
-      'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human
-      creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this,&rdquo; replied the
-      woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its
-      first touch, and ceased crying.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!&rdquo; she exclaimed, as she looked
-      into the baby's face. &ldquo;I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein'
-      aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Better see't th' mother fust, Ri,&rdquo; said Jeff, leading, half carrying,
-      Ramona into the hut. &ldquo;She's nigh abaout froze stiff!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for
-      Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered.
-      It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the corner
-      of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose bright
-      eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his disease. The
-      woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened and wrinkled,
-      gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair wound in a
-      careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying over her
-      forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite of her
-      careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity in her
-      bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and warmed hearts
-      at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and as she fixed them
-      on Ramona, she thought to herself, &ldquo;This ain't no common Mexican, no how.&rdquo;
-       &ldquo;Be ye movers?&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not included.
-      &ldquo;Ah, Senora,&rdquo; she said regretfully, &ldquo;I cannot talk in the English speech;
-      only in Spanish.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can't talk
-      much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter. Thet's
-      what we're bringin' him hyar fur,&mdash;fur warm climate! 'pears like it,
-      don't it?&rdquo; and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of ineffable
-      tenderness at the sick man. &ldquo;Ask her who they be, Jos,&rdquo; she added.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona,
-      said in Spanish, &ldquo;My mother asks if you are travellers?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;We have come all the way from San Diego. We are
-      Indians.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Injuns!&rdquo; ejaculated Jos's mother. &ldquo;Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly took
-      in Injuns? What on airth&mdash;Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny
-      white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to stay
-      naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thet
-      baby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing. Almost
-      she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had never
-      before heard so many English sentences without being able to understand
-      one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest words, that
-      she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, &ldquo;I know very
-      little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it tire you to
-      interpret to me what your mother said?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos was as full of humor as his mother. &ldquo;She wants me to tell her what you
-      wuz sayin',&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't she'll
-      like best.&mdash;My mother says you can stay here with us till the storm
-      is over,&rdquo; he said to Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried it
-      to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion.
-      &ldquo;Thanks! thanks! Senora!&rdquo; she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it she calls me, Jos?&rdquo; asked his mother.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;It only means the same as lady.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round where
-      we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me whichever she's
-      a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title of
-      Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him both
-      names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally said, &ldquo;I
-      like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, &ldquo;aout here 'n thes wilderness
-      to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,&mdash;jest what they all say ter hum? I
-      donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see ennybody put
-      upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet ain't
-      ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel enny
-      different.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There's lots doos, mammy,&rdquo; replied Jos, affectionately. &ldquo;Yer'd find out
-      fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air
-      ter everybody.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to her
-      breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she now saw
-      was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which raged
-      outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked together
-      for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and many of the
-      boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at every blast of
-      the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were burning a few sticks
-      of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer had hastily collected
-      before the storm reached its height. A few more sticks lay by the hearth.
-      Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor provision for a night in the
-      snow. &ldquo;Be ye warm, Jos?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not very, mammy,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's
-      somethin'.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had
-      always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered from it
-      as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern Tennessee a
-      more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs. But there was
-      no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking, it was &ldquo;jest like
-      aour luck,&rdquo; they said, and did nothing, or next to nothing, about it.
-      Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; after all, they got more
-      comfort out of life than many a family whose surface conditions were
-      incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest child and only
-      son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and the doctor said the
-      only thing that could save him was to go across the plains in a wagon to
-      California, they said, &ldquo;What good luck 'Lizy was married last year! Now
-      there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm 'n goin' right off.&rdquo; And
-      they sold their little place for half it was worth, traded cattle for a
-      pair of horses and a covered wagon, and set off, half beggared, with their
-      sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the wagon, as cheery as if they were
-      rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pair of steers &ldquo;to spell&rdquo; the horses,
-      and a cow to give milk for Jos, they drove before them; and so they had
-      come by slow stages, sometimes camping for a week at a time, all the way
-      from Tennessee to the San Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was
-      getting well. Another six months, they thought, would see him cured; and
-      it would have gone hard with any one who had tried to persuade either
-      Jefferson or Maria Hyer that they were not as lucky a couple as could be
-      found. Had they not saved Joshua, their son?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly
-      like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the
-      lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all
-      their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one
-      will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean,
-      quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having heard
-      her name, &ldquo;Maria,&rdquo; in full; as a child, and until she was married, she was
-      simply &ldquo;Ri;&rdquo; and as soon as she had a house of her own, to become a centre
-      of hospitality and help, she was adopted by common consent of the
-      neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal aunt-hood, which really
-      was a much greater tribute and honor than she dreamed. Not a man, woman,
-      or child, within her reach, that did not call her or know of her as &ldquo;Aunt
-      Ri.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not,&rdquo; she said
-      reflectively; &ldquo;ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come
-      short o' wood, thet's clear.&rdquo; As she spoke, the door of the hut burst
-      open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both covered
-      with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a little
-      clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods from the
-      house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering the horses
-      in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff, seeing
-      him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own, and
-      followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm for
-      hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to
-      Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, then
-      into hers; then he said devoutly, &ldquo;The saints be praised, my Majella! It
-      is a miracle!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. &ldquo;Ef they ain't Catholics!&rdquo; he
-      thought. &ldquo;What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammy they're
-      Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be. Thet gal's
-      got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz born.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well
-      acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of
-      friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Jeff,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri,&mdash;&ldquo;Jeff, they can't understand a word we say,
-      so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seem
-      hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but their
-      own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uv Injuns.
-      I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want ter come nigh
-      'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ez sweet a
-      creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer could ask enny
-      woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest worships
-      the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I see a white
-      man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think yer ever did
-      yerself?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her
-      ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two of
-      narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond bands or
-      families they had encountered in their journey across the plains. Here she
-      found herself sitting side by side in friendly intercourse with an Indian
-      man and Indian woman, whose appearance and behavior were attractive;
-      towards whom she felt herself singularly drawn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'm free to confess, Jos,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I hain't
-      seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've took to like
-      these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger in
-      Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but she
-      don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yer notice
-      the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thet feller?
-      'N' I don't blame her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro
-      without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now there
-      was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which made
-      its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason. She had
-      hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt with her.
-      She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a solid
-      expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It will be all gone by noon to-morrow,&rdquo; said Alessandro to Jos, who was
-      dreading the next day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not really!&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You will see,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;I have often known it thus. It is like
-      death while it lasts; but it is never long.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the
-      valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters for
-      Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their
-      primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great
-      anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's
-      anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there was
-      good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro knew
-      the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he was
-      rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide in hunting
-      expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion; companionship, she
-      was sure, would do Alessandro good,&mdash;companionship, the outdoor life,
-      and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond. This hot-spring canon
-      was only a short distance from the Saboba village, of which they had
-      spoken as a possible home; which she had from the first desired to try.
-      She no longer had repugnance to the thought of an Indian village; she
-      already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any Indian people. She
-      had become, as Carmena had said, &ldquo;one of them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A few days saw the two families settled,&mdash;the Hyers in their tent and
-      wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in a
-      little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to an old
-      Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live with a
-      daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own house.
-      It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly made adobe
-      bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. When Alessandro
-      heard Ramona say cheerily, &ldquo;Oh, this will do very well, when it is
-      repaired a little,&rdquo; his face was convulsed, and he turned away; but he
-      said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, and there
-      were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it. Alessandro
-      had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the earth floor;
-      a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung on the walls,
-      served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico canopy was again
-      set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red manzanita frame,
-      stood near. A small window in the door, and one more cut in the walls, let
-      in light and air. On a shelf near one of these windows stood the little
-      Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San Pasquale.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put both
-      arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her eyes full
-      of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation: &ldquo;Wall, I
-      allow yer air fixed up!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had the
-      expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not
-      understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood it.
-      On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: &ldquo;It beats all ever I see, the
-      way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't no more'n a
-      hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, fur all three on
-      'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow, Jos, she's fixed
-      it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does. I'd jest like you
-      to see it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri had
-      been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which had
-      never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and it could
-      not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the good-hearted
-      wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate disorderly
-      genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when, one day, after
-      the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly successful hunt, the
-      two families had sat down together to a supper of Ramona's cooking,&mdash;stewed
-      venison and artichokes, and frijoles with chili,&mdash;their wonder was
-      still greater.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;I never
-      thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona laughed. &ldquo;No; it is Mexican,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I learned to cook from an
-      old Mexican woman.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the
-      time to fuss with it,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri; &ldquo;but I may's well git the rule, naow
-      I'm here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He had
-      been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona
-      cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion
-      Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake in
-      him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in the
-      village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little
-      handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large;
-      their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and two
-      or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd the
-      Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, and there
-      was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was content.
-      Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin to it,
-      began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house; Majella
-      should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when he spoke
-      of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not Alessandro
-      comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before building.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away on
-      his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had gone
-      to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or lace
-      for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She did not
-      believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say, &ldquo;If there
-      is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock before winter
-      is over.&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said another; &ldquo;and look at those damned Indians over
-      there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their village! It's a
-      shame they should have that spring!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it
-      locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning
-      and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring
-      in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the
-      bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating
-      ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated fields,&mdash;many
-      acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself had fields
-      there from which they would harvest all they needed for the horses and
-      their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites took away
-      this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring began in the
-      very heart of the village, they could not take it without destroying the
-      village. &ldquo;And the Ravallos would surely never let that be done,&rdquo; thought
-      Ramona. &ldquo;While they live, it will not happen.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled up
-      their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months had
-      stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters had
-      seemed to do such good to Jos. But, &ldquo;We ain't rich folks, yer know, not by
-      a long ways, we ain't,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri; &ldquo;an' we've got pretty nigh down to
-      where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git settled 'n
-      some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done. Jeff, he's a
-      master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't think it; 'n I kin
-      airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good carpet-loom, 'n I won't
-      be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du love weavin'. I donno how
-      I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh about a year, without a
-      loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do yer think yer'd be
-      contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free to say I didn't
-      know's I should.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is it hard?&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Could I learn to do it?&rdquo; It was wonderful
-      what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in
-      these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly to
-      her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;I don't s'pose I'm much of a
-      jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in the
-      loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don't remember
-      nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried to teach lots of
-      folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn; it's jest 's 't
-      strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o' the kind could turn
-      yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in San Bernardino, if yer'll
-      come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' be glad ter. I donno's 't
-      's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin' though, anywheres raound
-      'n this yer country; not but what thar's plenty o' rags, but folks seems
-      to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd say. I've seen more cloes on
-      folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit for carpet-rags, than any
-      place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftless lot, these yere Mexicans;
-      'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say Injuns, I don't never mean yeow,
-      yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to me one mite like an Injun.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Most of our people haven't had any chance,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;You wouldn't
-      believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; how they
-      are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to
-      Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast;
-      she found no words to express her indignation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it.&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Why,
-      they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee,
-      fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell
-      'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think it's the people in Washington that have done it,&rdquo; said Ramona,
-      sadly. &ldquo;Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I bleeve so!&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, &ldquo;Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't, makes
-      the laws?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I bleeve so.&rdquo; said Jos. &ldquo;They make some, at any rate. I donno's they make
-      'em all.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is all done by the American law,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;all these things;
-      nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has to be
-      killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff told Alessandro, at
-      Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriff did; but
-      he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't any help.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. &ldquo;I sh'll make a business o'
-      findin' out abaout this thing yit,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I think yer hain't got the
-      rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It's all cheating.&rdquo; said Ramona; &ldquo;but there isn't any help for it, Aunt
-      Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'm an Ummeriken!&rdquo; cried Aunt Ri; &ldquo;an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're
-      Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not out er
-      a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're above cheatin';
-      an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o' this cheatin'
-      done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's a burnin' shame to
-      any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be done abaout it! I
-      wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for
-      want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to do
-      something. &ldquo;I ain't nobody,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I know thet well enough,&mdash;I
-      ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout the
-      country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeff
-      hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest,
-      nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aout what
-      all this yere means she's been tellin' us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands
-      and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby
-      had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for
-      Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday no
-      loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the
-      spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that she
-      had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill in the
-      snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before that,
-      she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her pinched
-      little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a feeble
-      wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies that Aunt
-      Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact, Aunt Ri from the
-      first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's symptoms. Day after
-      day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands clasped, his face set. Hour
-      after hour, night and day, indoors and out, he bore her in his arms,
-      trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer to the Virgin, to the
-      saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, though money was now
-      scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in vain. At last she
-      implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a doctor. &ldquo;Find Aunt
-      Ri,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;she will go with you, with Jos, and talk to him; she can
-      make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just as she did when they were
-      here, only weaker and thinner.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San
-      Bernardino. &ldquo;Not to rights yit,&rdquo; she said,&mdash;as if she ever would be.
-      Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on
-      pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for his mother,&mdash;a
-      floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and a roof; one
-      small square window,&mdash;that was all; but if Aunt Ri had been presented
-      with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased. Already she had
-      woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one for a neighbor, and had
-      promised as many more as she could do before spring; the news of the
-      arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch all through the
-      lower walks of San Bernardino life. &ldquo;I wouldn't hev bleeved they hed so
-      many rags besides what they're wearin',&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, as sack after sack
-      appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri had gathered up the threads of
-      the village life; in her friendly, impressionable way she had come into
-      relation with scores of people, and knew who was who, and what was what,
-      and why, among them all, far better than many an old resident of the town.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from her
-      high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before
-      Alessandro had dismounted, cried: &ldquo;Ye're jest the man I wanted; I've been
-      tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeff couldn't
-      leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet, 'n' I donno
-      when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come in ther wagon 'n'
-      fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowed yer hadn't got the
-      rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on the side o' the
-      thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an' they've jest sent
-      out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,&mdash;to take keer o'
-      the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. He come last
-      month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a spell, last
-      week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's a doctor, too,
-      to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays him; yer don't
-      hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o' savin', to git yer
-      docterin' fur nuthin'!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said. He
-      looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English he
-      tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by the
-      Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer ter
-      his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive down
-      'n' see her!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the door
-      bringing a doctor!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as
-      interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new
-      phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened with
-      trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt Ri's
-      voluble narrative.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's
-      errand he listened indifferently, and then said, &ldquo;Is he an Agency Indian?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A what?&rdquo; exclaimed Aunt Ri.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him, jest
-      naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in Saboba.
-      He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?&rdquo; said the doctor,
-      impatiently. &ldquo;You ought to have taken him to the Agent first.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?&rdquo; asked Aunt Ri,
-      wrathfully. &ldquo;Thet's what I heerd.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;&rdquo;
-       and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all the
-      time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life and death;
-      &ldquo;I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians will sooner or
-      later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd better take this
-      man over there. What does he want now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor
-      said, &ldquo;Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will help
-      her;&rdquo; and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle of
-      dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it to
-      Alessandro, saying, &ldquo;That will do her good, I guess.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thanks, Senor, thanks,&rdquo; said Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The doctor stared. &ldquo;That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this
-      office,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What's that, Jos?&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, as they went out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Donno!&rdquo; said Jos. &ldquo;I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would it
-      make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great
-      Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man, who
-      had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale farm
-      for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri
-      felt herself more at home.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv,&rdquo; she said, with a wave of
-      her hand toward Alessandro. &ldquo;We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some
-      metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did
-      so, &ldquo;The man's never been here before, has he?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is his name?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. &ldquo;Stop him.&rdquo;
-       cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. &ldquo;Don't let him write, till I know
-      what he puts my name in his book for!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wait,&rdquo; said Jos. &ldquo;He doesn't want you to write his name in that book. He
-      wants to know what it's put there for.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying to
-      speak kindly, the Agent said: &ldquo;There's no making these Indians understand
-      anything. They seem to think if I have their names in my book, it gives me
-      some power over them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, don't it?&rdquo; said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. &ldquo;Hain't yer got any
-      power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got it over?
-      What yer goin' to do for 'em?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Agent laughed in spite of himself. &ldquo;Well, Aunt Ri,&rdquo;&mdash;she was
-      already &ldquo;Aunt Ri&rdquo; to the Agent's boys,&mdash;&ldquo;that's just the trouble with
-      this Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all my
-      Indians on a reservation.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro understood the words &ldquo;my Indians.&rdquo; He had heard them before.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?&rdquo; he asked fiercely. &ldquo;I will not
-      have my name in his book if it makes me his.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper. &ldquo;That's
-      all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him go, then, if
-      he doesn't want any help from the Government!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, no.&rdquo; cried Aunt Ri. &ldquo;Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll make
-      him understand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly
-      suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites
-      except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was
-      impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple
-      and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. &ldquo;Let us go!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I do not wish
-      to sign any paper.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!&rdquo; said Aunt
-      Ri. &ldquo;Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin'
-      his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injuns wants
-      help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?&rdquo; she added, turning to the Agent.
-      &ldquo;Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the Agency
-      books.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his
-      baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name be
-      written, rather than that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let him write the name, then,&rdquo; said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went out
-      of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XXIII
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too
-      feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the
-      Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to his
-      mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to ride.
-      Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry him there
-      in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's
-      name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had written it,&mdash;for
-      this and nothing else,&mdash;to save the baby's life. Having thus enrolled
-      himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on this the Agency
-      doctor. And that his application might be all in due form, he took with
-      him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, before, that Aunt Ri's
-      kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not one unnecessary word, was
-      Alessandro's motto.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride
-      thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild
-      statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing,
-      when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father
-      expected.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in the
-      office. &ldquo;Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks the
-      Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. &ldquo;Do
-      you understand English?&rdquo; he asked sharply.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A very little, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it most
-      emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not only out of
-      the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the child's sake
-      he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no such horse in San
-      Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one would not know he was in
-      motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor come down and look at the
-      horse? Then he would see what it would be like to ride him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;I know
-      they can run.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came
-      into his eyes. &ldquo;It is our only child, Senor,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It will take you
-      but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the
-      child dies, she will die.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No! no!&rdquo; The doctor was weary of being importuned. &ldquo;Tell the man it is
-      impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go about the
-      country this way. They'd be sending for me down to Agua Caliente next, and
-      bringing up their ponies to carry me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He will not go?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The interpreter shook his head. &ldquo;He cannot,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. &ldquo;Ask him
-      if he will come for money?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have gold at home. I will pay him,
-      what the white men pay him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!&rdquo; said
-      the doctor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard
-      the coarse laugh, and the words, &ldquo;Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?&rdquo; which
-      followed his departure from the room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart seemed
-      breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon; she was
-      plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the cradle, from
-      the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment for the hoped-for
-      aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor would not come. She
-      had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro the account of the
-      appointment by the Government of these two men to look after the Indians'
-      interests. What else could their coming mean, except that, at last, the
-      Indians were to have justice? She thought, in her simplicity, that the
-      doctor must have died, since Alessandro was riding home alone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He would not come!&rdquo; said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse,
-      wearily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Would not!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Would not! Did you not say the Government had
-      sent him to be the doctor for Indians?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That was what they said,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;You see it is a lie, like the
-      rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The child must
-      die, Majella!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She shall not die!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;We will carry her to him!&rdquo; The thought
-      struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of it before?
-      &ldquo;You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so gently, she
-      will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or you, all the
-      way!&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;And we can sleep at Aunt Ri's house. Oh, why, why
-      did we not do it before? Early in the morning we will start.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had
-      ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the
-      child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready,
-      ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she
-      smiled. &ldquo;The first smile she has given for days,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Oh, the
-      air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba! Dear
-      Baba!&rdquo; and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the horse's side, Alessandro
-      riding Benito. As they paced along, their eyes never leaving the baby's
-      face, Ramona said, in a low tone, &ldquo;Alessandro, I am almost afraid to tell
-      you what I have done. I took the little Jesus out of the Madonna's arms
-      and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the Madonna will
-      grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did you ever hear
-      of it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. &ldquo;Never, Majella!
-      How dared you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I dare anything now!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;I have been thinking to do it for
-      some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till she gave
-      me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not have courage to
-      sit and look at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do
-      it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and I told
-      her, 'When we come back with our baby well, you shall have your little
-      Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doctor
-      cure our baby!' Oh, I have heard, many times, women tell the Senora they
-      had done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never will she let
-      the Jesus be out of her arms more than three weeks before she will grant
-      any prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me,
-      Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had brought
-      you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only at night.
-      In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. So she did not miss
-      him so much; else she had brought you quicker.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, Majella,&rdquo; said the logical Alessandro, &ldquo;it was because I could not
-      leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,&rdquo;
-       said Ramona, confidently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were
-      really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling
-      mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to love,
-      all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But it was only
-      the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, closed; a
-      strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. He was now
-      walking, Ramona riding Benito. &ldquo;Majella!&rdquo; he cried, in a tone which told
-      her all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the dying
-      child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her mother;
-      a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of agony swept over
-      the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were heart-rending.
-      Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove to caress her. She
-      stretched her arms up towards the sky. &ldquo;I have killed her! I have killed
-      her!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Oh, let me die!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!&rdquo;
-       gasped Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since his
-      first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have forgotten
-      her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned to stone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran
-      hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its
-      hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it
-      again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed out
-      prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, his arms
-      folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still without
-      speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned aloud,
-      and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's coffin.
-      Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed, she dressed
-      the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then laying her in
-      the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought altar-cloth. As
-      she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the time when she
-      embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song of the finches,
-      the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro sitting on the
-      steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that she,&mdash;that girl
-      who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful altar-cloth? Was
-      it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it Alessandro yonder,
-      driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows rang, louder and louder!
-      The air seemed deafening full of sound. With her hands pressed to her
-      temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful unconsciousness set her
-      free, for an interval, from her anguish.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had lifted
-      her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought she
-      would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his lethargy.
-      When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak. She closed
-      them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. &ldquo;I heard you out
-      there,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;It is done.&rdquo; And he pointed to a little box of rough
-      boards by the side of the cradle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I am ready,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We will hide forever,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It makes no difference,&rdquo; she replied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never
-      come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of
-      San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba
-      people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites, and
-      be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. But
-      now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight of the
-      dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had covered the
-      box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over it fell in
-      folds to the floor. &ldquo;Why does not this mother weep? Is she like the
-      whites, who have no heart?&rdquo; said the Saboba mothers among themselves; and
-      they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what to say. Ramona
-      perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them. Benumbing terrors,
-      which were worse than her grief, were crowding Ramona's heart now. She had
-      offended the Virgin; she had committed a blasphemy: in one short hour the
-      Virgin had punished her, had smitten her child dead before her eyes. And
-      now Alessandro was going mad; hour by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes
-      in him. What form would the Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let
-      Alessandro become a raging madman, and finally kill both himself and her?
-      That seemed to Ramona the most probable fate in store for them. When the
-      funeral was over, and they returned to their desolate home, at the sight
-      of the empty cradle Ramona broke down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere, so
-      it is not here!&rdquo; she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told her
-      of?&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she replied earnestly. &ldquo;No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me
-      away!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; he
-      said. &ldquo;My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San Pasquale
-      again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly at work,
-      planning the details of their move and of the new life. He mentioned them
-      one after another to Ramona. They could not take both horses; feed would
-      be scanty there, and there would be no need of two horses. The cow also
-      they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and the meat, dried, would
-      last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped he could sell; and he would
-      buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live well in these heights to which
-      they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, very safe; not only against
-      whites, who, because the little valley was so small and bare, would not
-      desire it, but against Indians also. For the Indians, silly things, had a
-      terror of the upper heights of San Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived
-      there, and money would not hire one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as
-      this valley which Alessandro had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each
-      one of these features of safety in their hiding-place. &ldquo;The first time I
-      saw it, Majella,&mdash;I believe the saints led me there,&mdash;I said, it
-      is a hiding-place. And then I never thought I would be in want of such,&mdash;of
-      a place to keep my Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!&rdquo; And he clasped her
-      to his breast with a terrifying passion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was not
-      an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard work to
-      give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the wagon for
-      quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to so much as
-      name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt
-      unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting from
-      their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses and
-      wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the
-      winter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if he
-      could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the chance.
-      &ldquo;He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said.
-      &ldquo;They would be well cared for; and then, if we did not like living on the
-      mountain, we could have the horses and wagon again when we came down, or
-      Jos could sell them for us in San Bernardino. Nobody could see Benito and
-      Baba working together, and not want them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majella is wiser than the dove!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;She has seen what is
-      the best thing to do. I will take them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but with
-      a look of horror she refused. &ldquo;Never,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;one step on that
-      accursed road! I will never go on that road again unless it is to be
-      carried, as we brought her, dead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be intolerable,
-      spite of all its affectionate kindliness. &ldquo;Tell her I love her,&rdquo; she said,
-      &ldquo;but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year perhaps we will go
-      down,&mdash;if there is any other way besides that road.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling. It
-      rankled deep. &ldquo;I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never,&rdquo; she said.
-      &ldquo;I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head, to do 't! I allow
-      we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've got jest thet feelin'
-      abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this yer world inter
-      anuther.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern horizon
-      of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door of the
-      little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat there hour
-      after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the heavy treadle,
-      and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with tender yearnings
-      at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote it, it glowed like
-      fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos,&rdquo; Aunt Ri would say.
-      &ldquo;I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't it, ever
-      sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout,
-      sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air into 't; 't can't
-      be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be like
-      bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed ther
-      couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but hisself. He
-      found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all thar is,
-      fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very
-      thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet strong
-      enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San Bernardino. But
-      the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at present out of
-      their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish was to have, at
-      the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one. They had tried in
-      vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one suitable for light
-      work. &ldquo;'Pears like I'd die o' shame,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, &ldquo;sometimes when I
-      ketch myself er thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er gettin' thet
-      Injun's hosses an' waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez much ez he hez
-      so fur, he's goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he cums. I allow ter
-      Jos 'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll dew good tew days'
-      work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest like kittens;
-      they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the world, 'n' more
-      tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a child. Pore
-      thing,&mdash;'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went
-      hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came
-      towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since
-      the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,&mdash;a
-      lovely green canon with oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that he
-      had thought of building his house if they had stayed in Saboba. But
-      Alessandro laughed bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream.
-      Already the news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for the
-      settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold to
-      this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley were
-      all fencing in their lands; no more free running of stock. The Saboba
-      people were too poor to build miles of fencing; they must soon give up
-      keeping stock; and the next thing would be that they would be driven out,
-      like the people of Temecula. It was none too soon that he had persuaded
-      Majella to flee to the mountain. There, at least, they could live and die
-      in peace,&mdash;a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest of deaths; but
-      they would have each other. It was well the baby had died; she was saved
-      all this misery. By the time she had grown to be a woman, if she had
-      lived, there would be no place in all the country where an Indian could
-      find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as these, Alessandro went up into
-      the canon one morning. It must be done. Everything was ready for their
-      move; it would take many days to carry even their few possessions up the
-      steep mountain trail to their new home; the pony which had replaced Benito
-      and Baba could not carry a heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona
-      would dry the beef which would be their supply of meat for many months.
-      Then they would go.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began
-      cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying.
-      Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona
-      went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from
-      house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out
-      excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them
-      darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. &ldquo;Hide it! hide it!&rdquo; she cried,
-      breathless; &ldquo;hide the meat! It is Merrill's men, from the end of the
-      valley. They have lost a steer, and they say we stole it. They found the
-      place, with blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we did it. Oh,
-      hide the meat! They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own, that
-      he bought; he did not know anything about their steer!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shall not hide it!&rdquo; cried Ramona, indignantly. &ldquo;It is our own cow.
-      Alessandro killed it to-day.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They won't believe you!&rdquo; said the woman, in distress. &ldquo;They'll take it
-      all away. Oh, hide some of it!&rdquo; And she dragged a part of it across the
-      floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened
-      the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed: &ldquo;By
-      God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest impudent thieves!
-      Look at this woman, cutting it up! Put that down, will you? We'll save you
-      the trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin' it! Fork over, now,
-      every bit you've got, you&mdash;&rdquo; And he called Ramona by a vile epithet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came
-      forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. &ldquo;Out of my house, you dogs of
-      the white color!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;This meat is our own; my husband killed the
-      creature but this morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they
-      had all swarmed into the little room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I say, Merrill,&rdquo; said one of them, &ldquo;hold on; the squaw says her husband
-      only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona turned on him like lightning. &ldquo;Are you liars, you all,&rdquo; she cried,
-      &ldquo;that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is not an
-      Indian in this village would steal cattle!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and at
-      that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian woman
-      had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and lifting the
-      deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there. &ldquo;Perhaps, when
-      you know Injun's well's I do,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you won't be for believin' all
-      they say! What's she got it hid under the bed for, if it was their own
-      cow?&rdquo; and he stooped to drag the meat out. &ldquo;Give us a hand here, Jake!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you touch it, I will kill you!&rdquo; cried Ramona, beside herself with
-      rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hoity-toity!&rdquo; cried Jake, stepping back; &ldquo;that's a handsome squaw when
-      she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She wasn't to
-      blame; of course, she believes what her husband told her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!&rdquo; muttered Merrill, as he
-      dragged the meat out from beneath the bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is all this?&rdquo; said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, turning,
-      with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking on, with an
-      expression which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave her a sense
-      of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had his hand on his gun. &ldquo;What is
-      all this?&rdquo; he repeated. He knew very well.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It's that Temecula man,&rdquo; said one of the men, in a low tone, to Merrill.
-      &ldquo;If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come here. You're
-      up the wrong tree, sure!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to
-      confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that he had
-      made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him. Alessandro
-      could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which stood at the
-      door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat rolled in the
-      hide, he said: &ldquo;There is the remainder of the beef. I killed the creature
-      this morning, in the canon. I will take Senor Merrill to the place, if he
-      wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed down in the willows yonder,
-      yesterday.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's so!&rdquo; cried the men, gathering around him. &ldquo;How did you know? Who
-      did it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her
-      shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were
-      cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look on;
-      she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the type of
-      outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt a certain
-      enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse of searchers
-      for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the stolen steer, he
-      maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At last, angry, ashamed,
-      with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his obstinacy, they rode away.
-      Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was trembling. Her hands were like
-      ice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let us go to the mountain to-night!&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;Take me where I need
-      never see a white face again!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as he
-      did.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no house,&rdquo;
-       he said; &ldquo;and I must go and come many times, before all the things can be
-      carried.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona,
-      bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with which
-      the man Jake had looked at her. &ldquo;Oh! I cannot stay here!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to
-      take double at once; then we can go sooner.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who was it stole that man's steer?&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Why did you not tell
-      them? They looked as if they would kill you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself came
-      on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew very well, by
-      the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I tell? They think only
-      Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the Mexicans steal more.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal cattle,&rdquo;
-       said Ramona, indignantly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That was not true, Majella,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, sadly. &ldquo;When they are
-      very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose many themselves,
-      and they say it is not so much harm to take one when they can get it. This
-      man Merrill, they say, branded twenty steers for his own, last spring,
-      when he knew they were Saboba cattle!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why did they not make him give them up?&rdquo; cried Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no help for
-      us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to
-      Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was
-      haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one
-      pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of
-      the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day she
-      saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door, looked
-      in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's instinct was
-      right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his mind to settle
-      in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and he wished to have
-      an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his house. Over in Santa
-      Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an Indian mistress for
-      three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa Ysabel, he had given the
-      woman a hundred dollars and a little house for herself and her child. And
-      she was not only satisfied, but held herself, in consequence of this
-      temporary connection with a white man, much above her Indian relatives and
-      friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry her, she had replied
-      scornfully that she would never marry an Indian; she might marry another
-      white man, but an Indian,&mdash;never. Nobody had held his brother in any
-      less esteem for this connection; it was quite the way in the country. And
-      if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw he had ever seen, to come and
-      live with him in a smaller fashion, he would consider himself a lucky man,
-      and also think he was doing a good thing for the squaw. It was all very
-      clear and simple in his mind; and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the
-      village one morning, he overtook her, and walking by her side began to
-      sound her on the subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona
-      trembled as he approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at
-      him; but he, in his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you married to your husband?&rdquo; he finally said. &ldquo;It is but a poor
-      place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with me, you
-      shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos'; and&mdash;&rdquo;
-       Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry which haunted his memory for
-      years, Ramona sprang from his side as if to run; then, halting suddenly,
-      she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath coming fast. &ldquo;Beast!&rdquo;
-       she said, and spat towards him; then turned and fled to the nearest house,
-      where she sank on the floor and burst into tears, saying that the man
-      below there in the road had been rude to her. Yes, the women said, he was
-      a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona said no word to Alessandro.
-      She dared not; she believed he would kill Jake.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and the
-      indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: &ldquo;I could
-      have told you better than to try that woman. She's married, fast enough.
-      There's plenty you can get, though, if you want 'em. They're first-rate
-      about a house, and jest's faithful's dogs. You can trust 'em with every
-      dollar you've got.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she stood
-      on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing around,
-      looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce the sky,
-      looking down upon the world,&mdash;it seemed the whole world, so limitless
-      it stretched away at her feet,&mdash;feeling that infinite unspeakable
-      sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which comes only on
-      mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, and cried: &ldquo;At
-      last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is
-      joy!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can Majella be content?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can almost be glad, Alessandro!&rdquo; she cried, inspired by the glorious
-      scene. &ldquo;I dreamed not it was like this!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to make
-      it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the mountain's
-      side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower than the
-      eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of rocks and
-      tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself made the
-      southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly vertical, and
-      covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years on the mountain and
-      not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out a crystal spring, which
-      trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy green, the entire length of
-      the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the lower end, and came out no
-      more; many times Alessandro had searched for it lower down, but could find
-      no trace of it. During the summer, when he was hunting with Jeff, he had
-      several times climbed the wall and descended it on the inner side, to see
-      if the rivulet still ran; and, to his joy, had found it the same in July
-      as in January. Drought could not harm it, then. What salvation in such a
-      spring! And the water was pure and sweet as if it came from the skies.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening
-      out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and
-      under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations of
-      Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone indeed, for
-      it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that Indians had
-      ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to be certain
-      death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to go far up
-      its sides.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both Alessandro
-      and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was soothed. She
-      did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer to the sky.
-      They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house, till the wheat
-      and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised, when he came to the
-      ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The valley thrust itself, in
-      inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its southern wall; lovely
-      sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to wound the soft,
-      flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the planting was done, he
-      began to fell trees for the house. No mournful gray adobe this time, but
-      walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left on; alternate yellow and
-      brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. The roof, of thatch, tule,
-      and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, was carried out several feet in
-      front of the house, making a sort of bower-like veranda, supported by
-      young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once more Ramona would sit under a
-      thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little corral for the sheep, and a rough
-      shed for the pony, and the home was complete: far the prettiest home they
-      had ever had. And here, in the sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat
-      Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant willow twigs a cradle. The one over which
-      she had wept such bitter tears in the valley, they had burned the night
-      before they left their Saboba home. It was in early autumn she sat
-      plaiting this cradle. The ground around was strewn with wild grapes
-      drying; the bees were feasting on them in such clouds that Ramona rose
-      frequently from her work to drive them away, saying, as she did so, &ldquo;Good
-      bees, make our honey from something else; we gain nothing if you drain our
-      grapes for it; we want these grapes for the winter;&rdquo; and as she spoke, her
-      imagination sped fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have
-      forgiven her, to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy!
-      Spite of poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and
-      oppression could do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her
-      arms.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same whose
-      house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona. She was
-      friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully came to be as
-      a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona saw in her
-      always the picture of what her own mother might perchance be, wandering,
-      suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning, filial instinct
-      found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, aged one.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's birth.
-      Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but Ramona felt no
-      fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in his arms, she
-      said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles, &ldquo;See, beloved!
-      The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter again!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's face,
-      he sighed, and said, &ldquo;Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not yours!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am glad of it,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;I was glad the first minute I saw it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook his head. &ldquo;It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,&rdquo; he
-      said. &ldquo;They look ever on woe;&rdquo; and he laid the baby back on Ramona's
-      breast, and stood gazing sadly at her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;it is a sin to always mourn. Father
-      Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a heavier cross
-      would be laid on us. Worse things would come.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That is true. Worse things will come.&rdquo; And he walked
-      away, with his head sunk deep on his breast.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XXIV
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep. His
-      passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne, the
-      hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on the
-      probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed itself as
-      by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might have saved
-      him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained, reticent, repressed
-      nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell on what hour or what
-      day her terrible fears first changed to an even more terrible certainty,
-      his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread of which he had cried out the
-      morning they left San Pasquale, came upon him. Strangely enough, and
-      mercifully, now that it had really come, he did not know it. He knew that
-      he suddenly came to his consciousness sometimes, and discovered himself in
-      strange and unexplained situations; had no recollection of what had
-      happened for an interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought it was
-      only a sort of sickness; he did not know that during those intervals his
-      acts were the acts of a madman; never violent, aggressive, or harmful to
-      any one; never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these intervals
-      his delusions were always shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life.
-      Sometimes he fancied that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they
-      were carrying off Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would
-      run with maniac swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground,
-      and slowly regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he
-      believed he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw,
-      where there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to
-      passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on
-      being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he
-      suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose
-      he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he
-      buried his head in his hands. &ldquo;What has happened to my memory?&rdquo; he said.
-      &ldquo;I must be ill of a fever!&rdquo; As he sat there, the goats, of their own
-      accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of which
-      stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up, said
-      goodnaturedly, &ldquo;All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my goats, but
-      I thought you'd bring 'em back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not
-      interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of the time.
-      He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best horse-breaker; and
-      his services were always in demand, spite of the risk there was of his
-      having at any time one of these attacks of wandering. His absences were a
-      great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness in which it left her,
-      but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental disorder might at any time
-      take a more violent and dangerous shape. This anxiety was all the more
-      harrowing because she must keep it locked in her own breast, her wise and
-      loving instinct telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him than
-      the knowledge of his real condition. More than once he reached home,
-      breathless, panting, the sweat rolling off his face, crying aloud, &ldquo;The
-      Americans have found us out, Majella! They were on the trail! I baffled
-      them. I came up another way.&rdquo; At such times she would soothe him like a
-      child; persuade him to lie down and rest; and when he waked and wondered
-      why he was so tired, she would say, &ldquo;You were all out of breath when you
-      came in, dear. You must not climb so fast; it is foolish to tire one's
-      self so.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed
-      Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for
-      him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her.
-      But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And, still
-      more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing
-      what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on this
-      mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their
-      fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. The
-      goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the sheep
-      were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer. The
-      spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew along
-      its edges thick as in beds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its mother
-      had never known sorrow. &ldquo;One would think she had suckled pain,&rdquo; thought
-      Ramona, &ldquo;so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin has kept
-      her well.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night and
-      day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the Madonna
-      and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth of all
-      their delicate chasing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San
-      Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the
-      baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the letter
-      to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her from San
-      Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what she should
-      say and how she should send it,&mdash;she, who had never had in her loyal,
-      transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since they were
-      wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he would thank her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its
-      being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen as
-      she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a
-      confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete, it
-      was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely wrought in
-      open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed. No baby would
-      there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and Alessandro had at
-      last given his consent that the name should be Majella. It was a reluctant
-      consent, yielded finally only to please Ramona; and, contrary to her wont,
-      she had been willing in this instance to have her own wish fulfilled
-      rather than his. Her heart was set upon having the seal of baptism added
-      to the name she so loved; and, &ldquo;If I were to die,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;how glad
-      Alessandro would be, to have still a Majella!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated
-      herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days
-      away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for the
-      trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the
-      appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety
-      increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before
-      he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the
-      horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. &ldquo;Why comes he riding like
-      that?&rdquo; she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw to her
-      surprise that he was riding a new horse. &ldquo;Why, Alessandro!&rdquo; she cried.
-      &ldquo;What horse is this?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his own
-      horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect his
-      thoughts. &ldquo;Where is my horse, then?&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My God! Alessandro,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Take the horse back instantly. They
-      will say you stole it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I left my pony there in the corral,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They will know I did
-      not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I recollect
-      nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary
-      punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. &ldquo;Oh, let me take it
-      back, dear!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;Let me go down with it. They will believe me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Majella!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;think you I would send you into the fold of the
-      wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I was
-      there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And that
-      is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am heavy
-      with sleep.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was evidently
-      still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of danger
-      oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her own hands
-      rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse; Alessandro had
-      evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for his sides were
-      steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood in Ramona's eyes as
-      she did what she could for him. He recognized her good-will, and put his
-      nose to her face. &ldquo;It must be because he was black like Benito, that
-      Alessandro took him,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Oh, Mary Mother, help us to get the
-      creature safe back!&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced at the
-      sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could Alessandro
-      go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point of waking him,
-      when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs roused him
-      instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran out to see
-      what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,&mdash;only a moment,
-      hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to hear a
-      gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the same
-      second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over
-      Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the forehead,
-      cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed to Ramona's
-      reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he untied the
-      black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and leaping into
-      his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he rode away, he
-      shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground, striving to lift
-      Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing from the ghastly
-      wounds. &ldquo;That'll teach you damned Indians to leave off stealing our
-      horses!&rdquo; he cried, and with another volley of terrible oaths was out of
-      sight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief,
-      Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in hers.
-      There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been fatal, close
-      to his heart,&mdash;the murderer aimed well; the after-shots, with the
-      pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds Ramona rose,
-      went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and laid it over
-      the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words she had heard
-      Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father Junipero, when one
-      of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the Indians, at San Diego.
-      &ldquo;Thank God.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the ground is now watered by the blood of a
-      martyr!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The blood of a martyr!&rdquo; The words seemed to float in the air; to cleanse
-      it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. &ldquo;My Alessandro!&rdquo; she
-      said. &ldquo;Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed martyrs; they will
-      listen to what a martyr says.&rdquo; His hands were warm. She laid them in her
-      bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching herself on the ground by
-      his side, she threw one arm over him, and whispered in his ear, &ldquo;My love,
-      my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My
-      Alessandro! Is he not blest already? And soon we will be with him! The
-      burdens were too great. He could not bear them!&rdquo; Then waves of grief broke
-      over her, and she sobbed convulsively; but still she shed no tears.
-      Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not
-      many hours high. Whither should she go for help? The old Indian woman had
-      gone away with the sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must
-      not lie there on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was
-      out of the question. There was another Indian village nearer,&mdash;the
-      village of the Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She
-      had once been there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There
-      was no human help nearer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him,
-      whispered, &ldquo;Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring
-      friends.&rdquo; As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying by
-      Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet to
-      follow her. &ldquo;No, Capitan,&rdquo; she said; and leading him back to the body, she
-      took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said, &ldquo;Capitan,
-      watch here.&rdquo; With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and stretched
-      himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his eyes
-      followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped,
-      baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn, her
-      face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she made
-      her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur after
-      spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her heart
-      sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro had
-      been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered wherever
-      they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her that she was
-      lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with Alessandro; for
-      fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake, she
-      must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just as it had grown so
-      dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before her, and was panting
-      more from terror than from running, lights suddenly gleamed out, only a
-      few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a few moments she was
-      there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,&mdash;a
-      cluster of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken
-      ground, on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud
-      and high-spirited,&mdash;veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and
-      independent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been
-      murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with
-      her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place. The
-      people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona had
-      taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon as she
-      had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the floor,
-      fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in time to
-      save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for it, or
-      noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to
-      be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words enough to set
-      the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and higher. Men were
-      everywhere mounting their horses,&mdash;some to go up and bring
-      Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to Jim
-      Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of
-      Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to
-      refrain from such violence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Will you leave
-      your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all if you
-      lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience
-      had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
-      that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like women,
-      and do nothing, when a friend was murdered?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in vain,&rdquo;
-       said the wise old man. &ldquo;It is not sweet to me, any more than to you. It is
-      a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you to go.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned their
-      project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were to be
-      heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more than one
-      way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the valley.
-      Alessandro should be avenged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he
-      revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he
-      would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than
-      if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This
-      Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to look
-      after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows in San
-      Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so far as to
-      arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to Indians. If he
-      were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might be troublesome.
-      Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make a show of good
-      conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up at once to the
-      nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man in self-defence,
-      Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge Wells, a few miles
-      below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender himself as having
-      committed &ldquo;justifiable homicide&rdquo; on an Indian, or Mexican, he did net know
-      which, who had stolen his horse. He told a plausible story. He professed
-      not to know the man, or the place; but did not explain how it was, that,
-      knowing neither, he had gone so direct to the spot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He said: &ldquo;I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn, I
-      came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the horse
-      had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I pushed on,
-      crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft ground. This
-      part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very wild. Finally I
-      came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little ranch. As I came
-      near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I discovered my horse tied
-      to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or Mexican, I could not tell
-      which, came out of the house, flourishing a large knife. I called out to
-      him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where
-      did you get it?' I asked. 'In San Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still
-      came towards me, brandishing the knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or
-      I'll shoot!' He did not stop, and I fired; still he did not stop, so I
-      fired again; and as he did not fall, I knocked him down with the butt of
-      my gun. After he was down, I shot him twice with my pistol.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the
-      prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six men
-      to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early the next
-      morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When they reached
-      the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was locked; no signs left
-      of the tragedy of the day before, except a few blood-stains on the ground,
-      where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this
-      unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he found that Judge Wells,
-      instead of attempting to return to the valley that night, proposed to pass
-      the night at a ranch only a few miles from the Cahuilla village, he became
-      almost hysterical with fright. He declared that the Cahuillas would surely
-      come and murder him in the night, and begged piteously that the men would
-      all stay with him to guard him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and head
-      men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his jury,
-      and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of the
-      murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they ought
-      not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had taken
-      place, and that now no inquest could be held.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and heard
-      the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first arrival.
-      Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high fever and
-      delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it on her breast.
-      She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking incessantly,
-      clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling snatches of
-      prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token of
-      consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes hide
-      it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined;
-      but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place
-      immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his
-      request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time for
-      Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the Indians
-      as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It was
-      evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to last.
-      Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from the
-      door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously, were
-      what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have spoken
-      many words.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a
-      merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business, on
-      his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It was with
-      a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the hour of
-      the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar himself.
-      That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This last
-      outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been glad to
-      have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts. But San
-      Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as fixed
-      standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of
-      communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more than
-      any man's political head was worth. The word &ldquo;justice&rdquo; had lost its
-      meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The
-      valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon
-      others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without a
-      bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to a
-      friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was
-      relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's
-      counsel, that &ldquo;the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable
-      homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He comforted himself by thinking&mdash;what was no doubt true&mdash;that
-      even if the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have
-      been the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County
-      jury that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if
-      there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he
-      derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also
-      the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched
-      Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death,
-      could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have
-      brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in
-      possession of her senses.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had seen
-      her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His children
-      knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife had bought
-      her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no one knew better
-      than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as incapable of
-      stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar knew it; everybody
-      knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits of wandering mind;
-      and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, he was wholly
-      irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of Farrar's deed
-      was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from having been forced
-      up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable rage, and fired on
-      the second, without knowing what he did. &ldquo;But he wouldn't have done it, if
-      it hadn't been an Indian!&rdquo; mused the judge. &ldquo;He'd ha' thought twice before
-      he shot any white man down, that way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not
-      shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if
-      Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There
-      might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered,
-      unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in his
-      own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The
-      longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this
-      purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would go
-      to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to Ramona.
-      Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XXV
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search
-      for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the
-      place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the
-      town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the San
-      Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him to
-      search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another took
-      refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then disappeared
-      as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; equally in
-      vain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had heard
-      of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain would have
-      to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn his
-      hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That might be,&rdquo; they said; &ldquo;nobody had ever heard of any such thing,
-      however;&rdquo; and very much they all wondered what it was that made the
-      handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he
-      lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had
-      sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he
-      heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely
-      watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager,
-      searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children
-      knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find.
-      Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could look
-      like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made no
-      confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for an
-      Indian named Alessandro Assis.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place, and
-      turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the Franciscan
-      Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California coast was the
-      one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard Father Salvierderra
-      say that there were in the neighborhood of each of the old Missions Indian
-      villages, or families still living. He thought it not improbable that,
-      from Alessandro's father's long connection with the San Luis Rey Mission,
-      Alessandro might be known to some of these Indians. He would leave no
-      stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; no Indian unquestioned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San
-      Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He had
-      spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found Indians;
-      miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart ached, and
-      he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the old Mission
-      buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder. Now Felipe
-      understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and why his mother
-      had been full of such fierce indignation against the heretic usurpers and
-      despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans once held. He could not
-      understand why the Church had submitted, without fighting, to such
-      indignities and robberies. At every one of the Missions he heard harrowing
-      tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who had clung to their
-      congregations to the last, and died at their posts. At Soledad an old
-      Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father Sarria, who had died there
-      of starvation. &ldquo;He gave us all he had, to the last,&rdquo; said the old man. &ldquo;He
-      lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did; and one morning, before he had
-      finished the mass, he fell forward at the altar and was dead. And when we
-      put him in the grave, his body was only bones, and no flesh; he had gone
-      so long without food, to give it to us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew very
-      little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they said. It
-      was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They did not
-      understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and the longer
-      he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever gone to
-      Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers at the
-      College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father Salvierderra
-      the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, that no traces
-      had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to the last, they
-      said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get any certainty in
-      his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day before he died, he had
-      said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian monk, to whom he was
-      greatly attached.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible omen;
-      and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart than before. He
-      believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown, unconsecrated spot,
-      never to be found; yet he would not give up the search. As he journeyed
-      southward, he began to find persons who had known of Alessandro; and still
-      more, those who had known his father, old Pablo. But no one had heard
-      anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since the driving out of his people
-      from Temecula; there was no knowing where any of those Temecula people
-      were now. They had scattered &ldquo;like a flock of ducks,&rdquo; one Indian said,&mdash;&ldquo;like
-      a flock of ducks after they are fired into. You'd never see all those
-      ducks in any one place again. The Temecula people were here, there, and
-      everywhere, all through San Diego County. There was one Temecula man at
-      San Juan Capistrano, however. The Senor would better see him. He no doubt
-      knew about Alessandro. He was living in a room in the old Mission
-      building. The priest had given it to him for taking care of the chapel and
-      the priest's room, and a little rent besides. He was a hard man, the San
-      Juan Capistrano priest; he would take the last dollar from a poor man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he could
-      not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he had
-      gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large corner
-      room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The room was
-      dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous fireplace; a
-      few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these lay the woman,
-      evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the feet; the wind
-      swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side of the wall; there
-      was not an article of furniture. &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; thought Felipe, as he entered,
-      &ldquo;a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole as this!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the
-      fire. &ldquo;I am sorry I have no candle, Senor,&rdquo; said the man, as he came
-      forward. &ldquo;My wife is sick, and we are very poor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. &ldquo;I only want to
-      ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; the man replied in a dogged tone,&mdash;no man of Temecula
-      could yet hear the word without a pang,&mdash;&ldquo;I was of Temecula.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I
-      suppose,&rdquo; said Felipe, eagerly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second a
-      bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But the
-      swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which he could
-      not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had recognized him.
-      &ldquo;Ha, ha!&rdquo; he thought to himself. &ldquo;Senor Felipe Moreno, you come to the
-      wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was Antonio,&mdash;Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing;
-      Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a
-      marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Moreno
-      house should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on
-      the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral a
-      beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about it,&mdash;Baba,
-      fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in his forehead.
-      Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a horse as that, with
-      a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now, though near three years
-      afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him. Of course it could be only
-      the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he get from Antonio!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor, I knew him,&rdquo; he replied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you know where he is now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you know where he went, from Temecula?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where did you see him last?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In Temecula.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was he alone?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did you ever hear of his being married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Senor.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Like this, Senor,&rdquo; with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. &ldquo;Most of
-      us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan Grande,
-      some way down into Lower California.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the
-      man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he said, &ldquo;I
-      hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly disappointed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno,&rdquo; thought Antonio. &ldquo;I am sorry,
-      Senor,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous
-      gold-piece, and said, &ldquo;Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see
-      you so poorly off.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful did
-      he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they had
-      fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the first
-      duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second time
-      help drifted away from Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence of
-      Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst
-      forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been
-      alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale,
-      where he had the promise of work.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth. After
-      long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed the time
-      so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a terrible
-      corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week after
-      Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus, alone, on
-      foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and she had lent
-      him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but they had never
-      sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, she had no more
-      doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he would have come back
-      to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that ever lived, was
-      Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he not found him so
-      always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro and his father. If
-      there had been, it would have been better for their people. &ldquo;If they'd all
-      been like Alessandro, I tell you,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it would have taken more
-      than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of their homes here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?&rdquo; asked Felipe.
-      &ldquo;The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myself
-      have lost half my estate in the same way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!&rdquo; she said.
-      &ldquo;'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe asked to see the violin. &ldquo;But that is not Alessandro's,&rdquo; he
-      exclaimed. &ldquo;I have seen his.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the
-      Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were driven
-      out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money, if you
-      could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come along yet. He
-      will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money back on
-      it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long before this.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell her
-      the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at first.
-      She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang to her feet,
-      and cried: &ldquo;If he's got that girl with him, he's hiding somewhere. There's
-      nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding, every other Indian
-      knows it, and you just waste your breath asking any questions of any of
-      them. They will die before they will tell you one thing. They are as
-      secret as the grave. And they, every one of them, worshipped Alessandro.
-      You see they thought he would be over them, after Pablo, and they were all
-      proud of him because he could read and write, and knew more than most of
-      them. If I were in your place,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;I would not give it up
-      yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now it might just be that she was along
-      with him that night he stopped here, hid somewhere, while he came in to
-      get the money. I know I urged him to stay all night, and he said he could
-      not do it. I don't know, though, where he could possibly have left her
-      while he came here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished
-      as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might
-      yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel,&rdquo; he said as
-      he rode away; &ldquo;and we will come by this road and stop to see you.&rdquo; And the
-      very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San Pasquale.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a
-      perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the
-      village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the
-      remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro,
-      Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,&mdash;the family of a man
-      who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village
-      stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found that there
-      was no help, that the American had his papers from the land-office, in all
-      due form, certifying that the land was his, had given the man his option
-      of paying for the house or having it burned down. The man had bought the
-      house; and it was only the week before Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set
-      off, with all his goods and chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly
-      have told the Senor more, the people said, than any one now in the village
-      could; but even Ysidro did not know where Alessandro intended to settle.
-      He told no one. He went to the north. That was all they knew.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly searched.
-      He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the house in
-      which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of the valley,
-      just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in it now. Such a
-      good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley. The American had
-      paid Alessandro something for it,&mdash;they did not know how much; but
-      Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they had listened to
-      him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it was too late for
-      most of them to get anything for their farms. One man had taken the whole
-      of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's house because it was the
-      best; and so they would not get anything. They were utterly disheartened,
-      broken-spirited.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses. &ldquo;Where
-      are you going?&rdquo; he asked of several.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who knows, Senor?&rdquo; was their reply. &ldquo;Where can we go? There is no place.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe
-      heard her spoken of as &ldquo;Majella,&rdquo; his perplexity deepened. Finally he
-      asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another Alessandro
-      than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought himself of a
-      possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro had married this
-      wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both like and unlike
-      Ramona?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here, as
-      ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at his
-      first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had only
-      just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was away in the
-      mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do equally well,
-      to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought out the
-      tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath coming fast
-      with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father Gaspara's hasty and
-      blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names, &ldquo;Alessandro Assis and
-      Majella Fa&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have been
-      married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom
-      Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on which
-      Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt compassion,
-      or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what lonely,
-      forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching
-      farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one
-      more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between San
-      Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of the
-      marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro
-      Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian
-      converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might have
-      been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were dozens
-      everywhere.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro
-      Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and
-      woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children, two
-      young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles that
-      their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was crying
-      bitterly. &ldquo;More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!&rdquo; thought
-      Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a piece of gold.
-      She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money had fallen from the
-      skies. &ldquo;Thanks! Thanks, Senor!&rdquo; she exclaimed; and the man coming up to
-      Felipe said also, &ldquo;God reward you, Senor! That is more money than I had in
-      the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I could get work?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe longed to say, &ldquo;Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have work!&rdquo;
-       In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought, for both
-      the man and the woman had good faces,&mdash;were young and strong. But the
-      pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for its dwindled
-      fortunes. &ldquo;No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;I live a
-      long way from here. Where were you thinking of going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Somewhere in San Jacinto,&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;They say the Americans have not
-      come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks, Senor; may
-      the saints reward you!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;San Jacinto!&rdquo; After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his thoughts.
-      The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known well in many a
-      distant horizon. &ldquo;Juan Can,&rdquo; he said one day, &ldquo;are there many Indians in
-      San Jacinto?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The mountain?&rdquo; said Juan Can.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ay, I suppose, the mountain,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;What else is there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The valley, too,&rdquo; replied Juan. &ldquo;The San Jacinto Valley is a fine, broad
-      valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is mostly dry
-      sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing. There is one
-      village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the San Luis Rey Indians
-      came from there; and up on the mountain is a big village; the wildest
-      Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are fierce, Senor!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one mentioned,
-      why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps there were yet
-      others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's impressionable nature
-      as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see him both lifted up and
-      cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little village street of San
-      Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against the southern sky, a
-      superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights from turquoise to
-      ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to himself, &ldquo;She is there!
-      I have found her!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt Ri,
-      with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden. &ldquo;San
-      Jacinto?&rdquo; he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came
-      whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping
-      being knocked down. &ldquo;That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet, with
-      those black devils of his, if he don't look out,&rdquo; he muttered, as he
-      recovered his balance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his horse's
-      sides, galloped after them. &ldquo;Baba! by God!&rdquo; he cried aloud in his
-      excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster,
-      shouting as he rode, &ldquo;Stop that man! Stop that man with the black horses!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba as
-      soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had
-      happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken
-      him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own
-      horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, &ldquo;Baba! Baba!&rdquo; Baba knew his
-      voice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For the
-      second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It had
-      never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title to
-      Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise,
-      therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud voice,
-      looking suspiciously at Jos, &ldquo;How did you get him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor could
-      the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl. Before
-      even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and took a
-      long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said: &ldquo;Wall,
-      Senor,&mdash;I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,&mdash;it would take
-      right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the
-      other one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona, Jos
-      saw it, and chuckled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,&rdquo; he
-      said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and
-      substance of what he had just said, adding: &ldquo;They belong to an Indian over
-      on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his wife's; he
-      wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had been hers ever sence
-      she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so much of hosses as
-      they did.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon,
-      throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, &ldquo;Follow
-      along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Found! Found,&mdash;the saints be praised,&mdash;at last! How should he
-      tell this man fast enough? How should he thank him enough?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: &ldquo;I can't explain to you; I can't
-      tell you. Bless you forever,&mdash;forever! It must be the saints led you
-      here!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, Lawd!&rdquo; thought Jos; &ldquo;another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not,
-      Senor,&rdquo; he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. &ldquo;It wur Tom Wurmsee led me; I
-      wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Take me home with you to your house,&rdquo; said Felipe, still trembling with
-      excitement; &ldquo;we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all you can
-      tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over California.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet
-      Ramona, he was sure. &ldquo;I'll take you straight there,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but first I
-      must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated scene
-      of an arrest for horse-stealing. &ldquo;Good for you, Tennessee!&rdquo; and, &ldquo;Fork
-      over that black horse, Jos!&rdquo; echoed from the departing groups. Sensations
-      were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford to slight so
-      notable an occasion as this.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his mother
-      coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her head, her
-      spectacles pushed up in her hair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, thar's mammy!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What ever hez gone wrong naow?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching her
-      bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, &ldquo;Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar! Stop!
-      I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound of
-      the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's side.
-      &ldquo;Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro's got
-      killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz an Injun
-      come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good God! Alessandro killed!&rdquo; burst from Felipe's lips in a heart-rending
-      voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was
-      almost beyond him. &ldquo;Oh, Lawd!&rdquo; he gasped. Turning to Felipe, &ldquo;Thet's
-      mammy,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She wuz real fond o' both on 'em.&rdquo; Turning to his
-      mother, &ldquo;This hyar's her brother,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;He jest knowed me by Baba,
-      hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she
-      sobbed out: &ldquo;Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a
-      Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less
-      brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy,
-      ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How air we
-      ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd never live
-      arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobody git up
-      thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos.
-      &ldquo;Tell me in Spanish,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I cannot understand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and
-      incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, &ldquo;Too late! Too
-      late!&rdquo; He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have survived
-      the shock of seeing her husband murdered. &ldquo;Too late! Too late!&rdquo; he cried,
-      as he staggered into the house. &ldquo;She has surely died of the sight.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I allow she didn't die, nuther,&rdquo; said Jos; &ldquo;not ser long ez she hed thet
-      young un to look arter!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yer air right, Jos!&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;I allow yer air right. Thar couldn't
-      nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby 'n her arms!
-      She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's some comfort.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he
-      said, &ldquo;How far is it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,&rdquo; said Jos; &ldquo;'n' the
-      Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz livin'.
-      It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto Mounting,
-      daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus
-      familiarly spoken,&mdash;spoken by persons who had known him so recently,
-      and who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death!
-      Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, &ldquo;We must
-      go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n&mdash;&rdquo; began Jos,
-      energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he
-      completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at
-      Felipe's command.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Jos! He's got ter take me!&rdquo; cried Aunt Ri. &ldquo;I allow I ain't never gwine
-      ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be ez she
-      is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by hisself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed
-      himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yeow tell him, Jos,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I can't never git used ter bein' called
-      Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest
-      wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like I'd
-      known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust. I'm free
-      to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these low-down,
-      driven Yankees, ennyhow,&mdash;a heap more; but I can't stand bein'
-      Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in
-      Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout
-      sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier
-      ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either
-      un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San Jacinto.
-      She laughed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I bet yeow I'd go clean back ter
-      the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n my hed
-      plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't begin to
-      do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the mounting, thet's
-      another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll be a way pervided,
-      Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get hisself hindered er
-      holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence
-      enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their
-      thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at first
-      appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical purposes,
-      and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a bond so
-      strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made
-      the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out, Aunt
-      Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, &ldquo;Thet's lucky.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had
-      spoken, &ldquo;it is good. It shows to us the way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!&rdquo; thought Aunt Ri.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were
-      hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when Aunt
-      Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one they
-      had seen for many miles, said: &ldquo;We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno the road
-      beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to git up 'n'
-      take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able business
-      keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind o' people
-      they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their time to git
-      up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a
-      feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's work. I used ter hear
-      'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The fust I saw uv it, I thought
-      somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o' night; but
-      arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but thar reggerlar way. When I
-      told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz gittin' up afore
-      light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed theirselves tew. They'd their own
-      breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes washed, too, afore light; 'n'
-      prayers said beside; they're Methodys, terrible pious. I used ter tell dad
-      they talked a heap about believin' in God; I don't allow but what they dew
-      believe in God, tew, but they don't worship Him so much's they worship
-      work; not nigh so much. Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow
-      wouldn't see no sech doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time
-      fur sleepin'; 'n' I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these
-      Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!&mdash;Lawd!
-      I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!&rdquo; thought Aunt Ri
-      to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on
-      Felipe's face. &ldquo;'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no,
-      between folks thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's
-      thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's
-      sed between folks thet doos!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the mountain
-      to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from taking his
-      own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses like those, they
-      said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel road. They pointed
-      out to him the line where it wound, doubling and tacking on the sides of
-      precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois. Aunt Ri shuddered at the
-      sight, but said nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I'm gwine whar he goes,&rdquo; she said grimly to herself. &ldquo;I ain't a gwine ter
-      back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road had
-      been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at perilous
-      angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till it reached
-      the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill. Passing this, it
-      plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen miles farther on,
-      and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and grassy foot-hills, still
-      on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern slopes. From these, another
-      steep road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla
-      village. A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from
-      Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the last part
-      of the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged that one of the
-      younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should also take two of
-      his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By the help of these the
-      terrible ascent was made without difficulty, though Baba at first snorted,
-      plunged, and resented the humiliation of being harnessed with his head at
-      another horse's tail.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have
-      experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the
-      precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, until
-      the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines were
-      grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper curve of
-      their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was their
-      size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by
-      myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away an
-      acorn,&mdash;the woodpeckers' granaries.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Look at thet, naow!&rdquo; exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; &ldquo;an' thar's folk's
-      thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumb to each
-      other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched with
-      furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar Mexican I'm
-      er travellin' with.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's so!&rdquo; replied Sam Merrill. &ldquo;When we fust got here, I thought I'd
-      ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my
-      meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their
-      lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned the
-      fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she
-      chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter! But
-      when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he would
-      see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm to her
-      again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early dawn
-      pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their carriage
-      came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be seen. Such
-      an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by four horses had
-      never before taken place in the village. The agitation into which the
-      people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had by no means
-      subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence.
-      The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had been set at
-      liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the flames of
-      indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much
-      difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth again this
-      morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces which
-      gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the Capitan's
-      house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and
-      contempt. &ldquo;Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid
-      eyes on,&rdquo; she said in a low tone to Merrill, &ldquo;I allow these yere air the
-      wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit, if
-      they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I allow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, they're friendly enough,&rdquo; laughed Merrill. &ldquo;They're all stirred up,
-      now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look so
-      fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a firin'
-      into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin' the cuss,
-      not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good horse o'
-      mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got out in this
-      country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean, low-lived
-      trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead; but Jim's a
-      rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his horse, that he
-      didn't know what he did.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had
-      leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan,
-      had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that
-      she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if
-      Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was
-      conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not even
-      the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make
-      her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard. The
-      words seemed to choke her as she began. &ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I donno
-      much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz great on religion.
-      Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet way; but I allow ef I
-      wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,&mdash;he's jest abaout yeour age, 'n' make tew,
-      though he's narrerer chested,&mdash;ef I should hear him say what yeou've
-      jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by lightnin'; 'n' I
-      sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I sh'dn't!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never
-      known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door,
-      beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly
-      rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she
-      crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and
-      said, &ldquo;Come, speak to her.&rdquo; He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on
-      the floor. Was that Ramona,&mdash;that prostrate form; hair dishevelled,
-      eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the
-      hands of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and
-      it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had
-      exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri burst into tears. &ldquo;Oh, Lawd!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Ef I had some 'old man'
-      hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't
-      growin' not more'n er mile back.&rdquo; And without a second look, or another
-      word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said,
-      speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: &ldquo;Yeow
-      jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allow I'll
-      git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yer hosses.
-      'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it,&rdquo; she cried, leaning out,
-      eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. &ldquo;Stop! Here 'tis!&rdquo;
-       she cried. &ldquo;I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along hyar;&rdquo; and
-      in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining, gray, feathery
-      leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely on their way back.
-      &ldquo;This'll cure her, ef ennything will,&rdquo; she said, as she entered the room
-      again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes roving restlessly over
-      Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them. &ldquo;She's bad,&rdquo; she said, her
-      lips trembling; &ldquo;but, 'never say die!' ez allers our motto; 'tain't never
-      tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' yer can't tell when thet time's come
-      till it's past 'n' gone.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's
-      nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it between
-      the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own hands
-      blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and life won.
-      Before night Ramona was asleep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers, each
-      taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona slept. As
-      Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she had knelt by
-      his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a niche in the
-      mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just smouldering out
-      before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken
-      stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and Ramona during the past
-      ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold; taking it cautiously
-      in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's picture, and falling on his
-      knees, began to pray as simply as if he were alone. The Indians, standing
-      on the doorway, also fell on their knees, and a low-whispered murmur was
-      heard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. &ldquo;Oh,
-      Lawd!&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!&rdquo; Then a
-      sudden revulsion seized her. &ldquo;I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one
-      out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I
-      allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!&rdquo; And
-      Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side
-      slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it in
-      the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and a
-      lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026">
-      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      XXVI
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light
-      streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt Ri
-      were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at
-      them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep agin,
-      honey,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's eyelids, and
-      compelling them down. &ldquo;We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' we air goin' ter
-      stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter sleep, honey.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way,
-      and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove to
-      speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint question
-      that came,&mdash;&ldquo;Felipe?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, dear! I am here, too,&rdquo; breathed Felipe; &ldquo;go to sleep. We will not
-      leave you!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her
-      life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, with a sigh,
-      deep-drawn like a groan. &ldquo;I allow I dread ter see her reely come to. 'T'll
-      be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering in
-      Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle constancy
-      had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made; this, and her
-      inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were those of old, who
-      &ldquo;had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being destitute, afflicted,
-      tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of
-      the earth.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific smile
-      that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, &ldquo;How did you find me, dear
-      Felipe?&rdquo; It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any sound that
-      he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an audible
-      sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again, and tried
-      to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, she
-      whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, &ldquo;Alessandro.&rdquo; A convulsion passed
-      over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly
-      responded: &ldquo;Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n'
-      Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n' well,
-      'n' tote ye out er this&mdash;&rdquo; Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her
-      vocabulary answered her need at that moment. &ldquo;I allow ye kin go 'n a week,
-      ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter talkin',
-      thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey. We'll look
-      arter everythin'.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips
-      framed the words, &ldquo;With you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, dear, home with me,&rdquo; said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. &ldquo;I have
-      been searching for you all this time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How
-      often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the
-      sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than
-      continued anxiety. &ldquo;I am alone, dear Ramona,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;There is no
-      one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead a
-      year.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. &ldquo;Dear Felipe!&rdquo; she
-      sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one inspired;
-      another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for Ramona. Not only
-      her child to live for, but to &ldquo;take care of Felipe&rdquo;! Ramona would not die!
-      Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and duty, on the side of
-      life,&mdash;the battle was won, and won quickly, too.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on Aunt
-      Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious reverence.
-      They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb by means of
-      which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made repeated
-      experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be that there
-      had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would hardly
-      believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she
-      reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water
-      and &ldquo;old man,&rdquo; which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which, when
-      explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some
-      significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the
-      leaves.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in the
-      Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like water,
-      and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything, anything, he
-      wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the atmosphere of that
-      lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He had travelled all over
-      California, with four horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till
-      she was well, to take her to his home in the south; and then he was going
-      to arrest the man who had murdered her husband, and have him hanged,&mdash;yes,
-      hanged! Small doubt about that; or, if the law cleared him, there was
-      still the bullet. This rich Senor would see him shot, if rope were not to
-      be had. Jim Farrar heard these tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The
-      rope he had small fear of, for well he knew the temper of San Diego County
-      juries and judges; but the bullet, that was another thing; and these
-      Mexicans were like Indians in their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and
-      their memories were long. Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get
-      the better of him on that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody
-      but he himself knew,&mdash;nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did
-      not know the bitter whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had
-      gone forward with no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that.
-      Only the murderer himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to
-      the judge and jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his
-      own, and that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by
-      Alessandro, and those were, &ldquo;Senor, I will explain;&rdquo; and that even after
-      the first shot had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his
-      throat, he had still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted
-      deprecatingly, and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the
-      ground dead. Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that
-      killing an Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading
-      anguish in Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked
-      to recall this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law
-      who had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more
-      unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another thing,
-      too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by
-      everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of it
-      on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely
-      investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only clew
-      he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that the
-      poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in the
-      corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a
-      horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more than
-      once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact of
-      Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell
-      against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was as
-      cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate in human
-      nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and apprehension,
-      he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, at least for a
-      few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the way. He lost no
-      time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well he did not, for it
-      was only three days after he had disappeared, that Felipe walked into
-      Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries relative to the
-      preliminary hearing which had been held there in the matter of the murder
-      of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar. And when the judge,
-      taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of the case, and went on
-      to say, &ldquo;If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's, the wife's, must be
-      false,&rdquo; and &ldquo;at any rate, her testimony would not be worth a straw with
-      any jury,&rdquo; Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, &ldquo;She of whom you speak is
-      my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find that man, I will shoot
-      him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a San Diego County jury will
-      hang me for ridding the country of such a brute!&rdquo; and Felipe would have
-      been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Farrar had done in making
-      his escape.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up her
-      spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young Merrill.
-      &ldquo;Fled ther country, hez he?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Wall, he kin flee ez many
-      countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow folks
-      hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I say 'tis;
-      an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef 'tain't brung
-      one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n' don't yeow
-      furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's lighted out
-      er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd arter him,
-      naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in hangin'. I never
-      could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't want to see no man
-      hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to see no man shot down,
-      nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar Feeleepy, he's thet
-      highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit, quicker'n lightnin', ef
-      he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound he's lit aout. But I tell
-      yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet Injun he murdered 'll
-      foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long arter; he'll wish he wuz
-      dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow. He'll be jest like a man I
-      knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a mite then, but I never forgot it.
-      'Tis a great country fur gourds, East Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n'
-      thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin'
-      all over the fence; 'n' one o' ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an'
-      they fit abaout it; 'n' then the women took it up,&mdash;ther childun's
-      mothers, yer know,&mdash;'n' they got fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the
-      last the men took it up, 'n' they fit; 'n' Rowell he got his
-      butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he picked a querril with
-      Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed him up for 't, 'n'
-      somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever did, but they put 't
-      off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; 'n' he lived on thar a
-      spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like he never hed no peace; 'n'
-      he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, 'Jake,'&mdash;they allers called
-      daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'&mdash;'Jake,' sed he, 'I can't stan' it,
-      livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the country's clar'd ye.'
-      'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' I've got Claiborne allers
-      with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but he's a walkin' in it, by my
-      side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with him ter one side, 'n' my wife
-      't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's ther very words I heered him say,
-      'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he
-      went West, way aout hyar to Californy, 'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther,
-      'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy
-      sez to him,&mdash;I heern him,&mdash;'Wal,' sez he, 'did Claiborne foller
-      yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll never git shet o' him in this
-      world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' Yer see, 'twas jest his
-      conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. 'T least, thet's all I
-      think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said 't wuz Claiborne's ghost.
-      'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this miser'ble Farrar. He'll live
-      ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er shot, er erry which way, ter git
-      out er his misery.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words.
-      They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a
-      stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character of
-      the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such strata,&mdash;the
-      training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by successions of
-      unrelated and violent experiences, like geological deposits. Underneath
-      the exterior crust of the most hardened and ruffianly nature often remains&mdash;its
-      forms not yet quite fossilized&mdash;a realm full of the devout customs,
-      doctrines, religious influences, which the boy knew, and the man
-      remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or struggle in
-      his mature life, these all come again into the light. Assembly Catechism
-      definitions, which he learned in his childhood, and has not thought of
-      since, ring in his ears, and he is thrown into all manner of confusions
-      and inconsistencies of feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and
-      new man within him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote
-      upon young Merrill. He was not many years removed from the sound of a
-      preaching of the straitest New England Calvinism. The wild frontier life
-      had drawn him in and under, as in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander
-      yet at heart.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's so, Aunt Ri!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;That's so! I don't s'pose a man
-      that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in the
-      next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin' business
-      is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you can fix it;
-      everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin' had ought to
-      be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. &ldquo;I hain't no
-      patience left with yer,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez
-      ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun, he
-      wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef he'd
-      ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral, same ez,
-      yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n' the hoss er
-      tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter see?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Left his own horse, so he did!&rdquo; retorted Merrill. &ldquo;A poor, miserable,
-      knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse
-      was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',&rdquo; persisted Aunt
-      Ri. &ldquo;I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he
-      wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter
-      hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left his
-      name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n'
-      fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow
-      me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I
-      allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;&rdquo; and nothing that Merrill said
-      could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death.
-      But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech
-      eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The
-      last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in the
-      presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. &ldquo;I'll never hear a word
-      said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The way the pore
-      things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony, beat all
-      ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most. 'N' they
-      wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till Feeleepy 'n'
-      me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' taken care on her
-      till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took care on among them,
-      they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing left. Thet's ther way they
-      air raised; I allow white folks might take a lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n'
-      in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done talkin' again Injuns, naow,
-      don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all thet, 't won't make any
-      difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody b'leeve ennythin' 'n this
-      world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet way tew; I allow I hain't
-      got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull world could see what I've
-      seen! Thet's all!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed.
-      Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a
-      protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's and
-      Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet conscious of
-      a loss,&mdash;of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of the world
-      seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their hopeless
-      poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister,&mdash;one
-      of them; as such, she would have had share in all their life had to offer.
-      But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation; and she was
-      being borne away from it, like one rescued, not so much from death, as
-      from a life worse than death.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She
-      embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days suckled
-      her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe that Ramona's
-      should not suffer. &ldquo;Sister, you have given me my child,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;I can
-      never thank you; I will pray for you all my life.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a little
-      child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than hers was
-      ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice spoke to guide
-      her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had characterized her
-      daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene and sunny then,&mdash;serene
-      under trials, sunny in her routine of little duties,&mdash;had kept her
-      serene through all the afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the
-      burdens of her later life; and it did not desert her even now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry,
-      humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. &ldquo;I allow I donno but I
-      sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;ef I wuz ter live 'long
-      side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T beats me
-      plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would say she hedn't
-      no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin see, 'tain't
-      thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv prayin' to
-      picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet keeps her up
-      ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n it's hed credit fur.
-      I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin Injuns. 'Pears like I'm
-      gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these days. I'll turn Injun,
-      mebbe, afore I git through!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a
-      mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go
-      home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a
-      treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at it.
-      &ldquo;Dear girl,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;it is the nearest she has ever come to knowing
-      what a mother's love is like!&rdquo; And he lingered in San Bernardino week
-      after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear
-      the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying was his
-      reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering
-      companionship.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife.
-      She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful
-      morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her
-      favorite pattern, the &ldquo;hit-er-miss&rdquo; pattern, as she called it; no set
-      stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the
-      indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a single
-      color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious blending of
-      the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, too, of not
-      unphilosophical reflection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's 'hit'
-      oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way ther
-      breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when they
-      air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter be with
-      heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss' pattren we
-      air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon how 't 'll
-      come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd think; come ter
-      sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought 't wuz gwine ter be;
-      but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a 'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my
-      life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't never nobody fetched me rags,
-      'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n'
-      jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come, 'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful
-      diserpynted when they cum ter see 't done. It don't never look's they
-      thought 't would, never! I larned thet lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em
-      write aout on a paper, jest ther wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther
-      colors, so's they kin see it's what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers
-      say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I
-      allow ennybody's a bawn fool gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But
-      fur me, I'll take ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight
-      along.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent
-      arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the
-      time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was
-      burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to give,
-      and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent himself at
-      home.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,&rdquo; she
-      said; &ldquo;I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered.
-      We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother. He's
-      tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not come
-      to see him; he had expected to hear from her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she wuz
-      ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in
-      talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to no
-      jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me,&rdquo; said the Agent. &ldquo;I was going
-      to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring the
-      case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns, I
-      notice,&rdquo; broke in Aunt Ri; &ldquo;hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the marshal
-      here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour doin';
-      yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell&mdash;them wuz
-      thar words&mdash;thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That's so!&rdquo; said the Agent. &ldquo;So I am; I am determined to break up this
-      vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do
-      anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and a
-      shame.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thet's so, I allow ter yeow,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;Thar ain't any gainsayin'
-      thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin'
-      whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes
-      'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have
-      no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?&rdquo; broke in Aunt Ri.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical
-      method of questioning was inconvenient.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I only mean that they are under my charge,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I don't mean that
-      they belong to me in any way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, I allow not,&rdquo; retorted Aunt Ri, &ldquo;enny more 'n I dew. They air
-      airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've been
-      'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had my eyes
-      opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet they call
-      the Agency doctor,&mdash;what's he got ter do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,&rdquo; replied the
-      Agent, promptly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why
-      Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,&mdash;thet's why he put his name
-      down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz
-      high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out
-      er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore; 'n'
-      he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n' the
-      docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N' they
-      set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died afore
-      they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the rest druv
-      Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells till arter
-      thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I wouldn't hev no
-      sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow. Pr'aps yer never
-      heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer knowed it, or ye'd hev
-      made him go.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Aunt Ri,&rdquo; said the Agent; &ldquo;I could not have done that; he is only
-      required to doctor such Indians as come here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,&rdquo; said Aunt
-      Ri; &ldquo;'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I
-      expect he gits well paid?&rdquo; and she paused for an answer. None came. The
-      Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary the
-      Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard
-      prescriptions to Indians he never saw.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: &ldquo;Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I allow
-      I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these Injuns.
-      I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em 'n' knowing
-      this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to giv' 'em
-      ennything,&mdash;food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times of special
-      suffering;&rdquo; replied the Agent, &ldquo;a very little; and the Department has
-      appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not enough, however, to
-      supply every village; you see these Indians are in the main
-      self-supporting.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thet's jest it,&rdquo; persisted Aunt Ri. &ldquo;Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n'
-      thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter hev
-      yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer can't put
-      folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say killin' 'em,&mdash;ef
-      yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin' whiskey, wall, I'm
-      free ter say&mdash;&rdquo; Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to seem to reflect
-      on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence very differently
-      from her first impulse,&mdash;&ldquo;I'm free ter say I shouldn't like ter stan'
-      in yer shoes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You may very well say that, Aunt Ri,&rdquo; laughed the Agent, complacently.
-      &ldquo;It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least
-      satisfactory.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',&rdquo; rejoined the
-      indefatigable Aunt Ri; &ldquo;but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so be's
-      thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.&rdquo; And she looked
-      honestly puzzled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Look there, Aunt Ri!&rdquo; said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of books
-      and papers. &ldquo;All those to be gone through with, and a report to be made
-      out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I buy. I
-      tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for less
-      pay.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,&rdquo; retorted Aunt Ri,
-      good-naturedly satirical, &ldquo;ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!&rdquo; And she
-      took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and
-      function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a
-      dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito,
-      gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed gliding;
-      Felipe by her side,&mdash;the dear Felipe,&mdash;his eyes wearing the same
-      bright and loving look as of old,&mdash;what strange thing was it which
-      had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one in her
-      arms,&mdash;she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but her nerves
-      were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful anaesthetics in the
-      shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness of the blow sometimes
-      lies its own first healing. It would be long before Ramona would fully
-      realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was yet to come.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with a
-      marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid, always
-      ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each
-      thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he knew
-      her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards him.
-      &ldquo;Grateful to me!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;To me, who might have spared her all this
-      woe if I had been strong!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Never would Felipe forgive himself,&mdash;no, not to the day of his death.
-      His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a pitiful
-      thing was that to render!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that
-      she had shed tears. At last he said to her: &ldquo;Dearest Ramona, do not fear
-      to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better for
-      you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to wounds.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do not think so, Felipe,&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;Tears are only selfish and
-      weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always
-      to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also that
-      I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father
-      Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how
-      much we might be suffering.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That is more than human power can do!&rdquo; said Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I think not,&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;If it were, Father Salvierderra would not
-      have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile his face
-      always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years before he
-      died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep, from the great
-      wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never saw him except with a
-      smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone, Felipe, many things
-      become clear. I have been learning, all these years in the wilderness, as
-      if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought that the spirit of
-      Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts into my mind. I hope I
-      can tell them to my child when she is old enough. She will understand them
-      quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's soul; you can see that by her
-      eyes. And all these things of which I speak were in his heart from his
-      childhood. They belong to the air and the sky and the sun, and all trees
-      know them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He
-      himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke it
-      as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There were to
-      be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely,
-      sorrowing, sunny sister of his.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch for
-      days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can heading
-      the group; only two absent,&mdash;Margarita and Luigo. They had been
-      married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where
-      Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting.
-      Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the
-      home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of what
-      their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed that
-      she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would be terrible
-      to her to come back to the place so full of painful associations. &ldquo;And the
-      Senora gone, too,&rdquo; said one of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it
-      over; &ldquo;it's not the same place at all that it was when the Senora was
-      here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than ever,
-      for this year of absolute control of the estate. &ldquo;Humph! that's all you
-      know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you! We'd
-      never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that, my man!
-      And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the Senorita
-      than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day. They can have
-      theirs now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona&mdash;pale, but with
-      her own old smile on her face&mdash;coming towards them with her babe in
-      her arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in
-      the group.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards her,
-      and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, &ldquo;I am sure you will love
-      my baby, Marda!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!&rdquo; they cried; and closed up
-      their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her from
-      one to another.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, &ldquo;Give her to
-      me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;&rdquo; and she moved toward
-      the inner door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;This way, dear; this way,&rdquo; cried Felipe. &ldquo;It is Father Salvierderra's
-      room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the
-      baby!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thanks, kind Felipe!&rdquo; cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her
-      words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in
-      returning,&mdash;the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It
-      would be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would
-      never enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom hold
-      the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face of this
-      beautiful woman,&mdash;so much more beautiful now than she had been before
-      her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought her
-      changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which would
-      for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's thoughts
-      as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There was a rapt
-      look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by the dullest
-      perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. It was the
-      same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own humorous
-      fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply to a
-      half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect that
-      it was &ldquo;a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita years
-      ago,&mdash;what if he were to do it yet?&rdquo; she said, also under her breath.
-      &ldquo;It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself! Not but
-      that it would be a great thing if it could be!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often had
-      come about,&mdash;the presence of a little child in her house, on the
-      veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence. But
-      how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly had
-      pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished Ramona
-      returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the house,&mdash;Ramona,
-      widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own, he could not have
-      felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little thing had clung to
-      him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in his arms, one little
-      hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and again
-      when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in Felipe's heart came Ramona's
-      child; and on the child he could lavish the fondness he felt that he could
-      never dare to show to the mother, Month by month it grew clearer to Felipe
-      that the mainsprings of Ramona's life were no longer of this earth; that
-      she walked as one in constant fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and
-      calm mention of Alessandro did not deceive him. It did not mean a
-      lessening grief: it meant an unchanged relation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,&mdash;the concealed treasure.
-      A sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of it.
-      But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he delayed
-      the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held his mother
-      to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before Ramona
-      interrupted him. &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I knew about those things; your
-      mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish sometimes we
-      could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given to the Church.
-      That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with them if I married
-      against your mother's wishes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: &ldquo;Dear Ramona, they
-      were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died; and I
-      suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me about
-      them just as she was dying.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?&rdquo; asked Ramona, simply.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; cried Felipe. &ldquo;Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only. I
-      would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that you
-      were dead and had left no children.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. &ldquo;You have not read
-      the Senora Ortegna's letter?&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I have,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;every word of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against
-      the Senora Moreno's will.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? &ldquo;No, dear,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that was not
-      the word. It was, if you married unworthily.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona reflected. &ldquo;I never recollected the words,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I was too
-      frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry
-      unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to
-      take them for my child?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perfectly,&rdquo; said Felipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am sure of it, dear.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did
-      not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was why
-      she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one thing,&mdash;a
-      handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it; but it got lost
-      when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a half-day's journey
-      to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved sorely for it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The next day Ramona said to Felipe: &ldquo;Dear Felipe, I have thought it all
-      over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to
-      have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to
-      say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,&mdash;to
-      Father Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would
-      rather have them go.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, dear,&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;and then we will put them in some safer place.
-      I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one has
-      stolen them all these years!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written
-      bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing we
-      call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we can have
-      much to do with its shaping.
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,&mdash;smoothly to the eye.
-      Nothing could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its
-      days, with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all.
-      Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was
-      not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth, from
-      veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at home and
-      equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running, frisking,
-      laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely drifted into
-      this happy shelter,&mdash;the little Ramona. As unconscious of aught sad
-      or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was her delight to
-      play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been from the first in
-      some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set free from all that
-      could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an added
-      radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when she felt
-      that she for the first time waked to the realization of her bereavement;
-      when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out, mocking her with the
-      name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled with this absorbing
-      grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly to the purposes of each
-      day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of joyfulness. She repeated to
-      herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than knew them by
-      heart; and she spent long hours of the night in prayer, as it had been his
-      wont to do.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them;
-      and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new victory
-      diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first dishearten,
-      nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted lover now than
-      he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the world where Ramona
-      really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her every act, word, look,
-      was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness in his
-      companionship. And while this was so, all Felipe's unrest could not make
-      him unhappy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning
-      desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life in
-      California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims,
-      standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their boasted
-      successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and
-      development,&mdash;all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for
-      money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour,
-      thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and
-      gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life under
-      the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his
-      hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted. He
-      found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish tongue
-      was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for Mexico,&mdash;for
-      Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an exile. There he
-      might yet live among men of his own race and degree, and of congenial
-      beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this change, always came
-      the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing to go? Could it be that
-      she felt a bond to this land, in which she had known nothing but
-      sufferings.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: &ldquo;Felipe!
-      The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not think that
-      you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful dream for
-      Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and wondered
-      that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter the burden
-      she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of race.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he could
-      have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich
-      American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in the
-      valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received for it
-      was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the realization of all
-      his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour that this was
-      determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new expression came
-      into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An untried future
-      beckoned,&mdash;a future which she would embrace and conquer for her
-      daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the first time
-      hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new love? She could
-      not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw it, could she refuse
-      to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait long, he thought. Surely,
-      since he had been patient so long without hope, he could be still more
-      patient now that hope had dawned! But patience is not hope's province in
-      breasts of lovers. From the day when Felipe first thought to himself, &ldquo;She
-      will yet be mine,&rdquo; it grew harder, and not easier, for him to refrain from
-      pouring out his love in words. Her tender sisterliness, which had been
-      such balm and comfort to him, grew at times intolerable; and again and
-      again her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had
-      displeased him, so strangely did he conduct himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his
-      passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there
-      came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on board
-      the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back to shore
-      in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in the end of
-      the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to float up around
-      her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed at her till his
-      senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she put her hand in his,
-      and said, as she had said hundreds of times before, &ldquo;Dear Felipe, how good
-      you are!&rdquo; he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, &ldquo;Ramona, my love! Oh,
-      can you not love me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona
-      gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she knew
-      all. &ldquo;Felipe! My brother!&rdquo; she cried, and stretched out her hands as if in
-      warning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No! I am not your brother!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I will not be your brother! I
-      would rather die!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to himself.
-      It was a voice of terror and of pain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Forgive me, my sweet one!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I will never say it again. But
-      I have loved you so long&mdash;so long!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the
-      shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet gently
-      as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme moment of
-      Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole past life in a
-      new light. Remorse smote her. &ldquo;Dear Felipe,&rdquo; she said, clasping her hands,
-      &ldquo;I have been very selfish. I did not know&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course you did not, love,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;How could you? But I have
-      never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to
-      love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have
-      spoken; I cannot hide it any more.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. &ldquo;I have always
-      loved you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I love no other living man; but, Felipe,&rdquo;&mdash;her
-      voice sank to a solemn whisper,&mdash;&ldquo;do you not know, Felipe, that part
-      of me is dead,&mdash;dead? can never live again? You could not want me for
-      your wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. &ldquo;You
-      would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife,&rdquo; he cried.
-      &ldquo;Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself
-      dead or alive!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not
-      know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This gentle,
-      faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she would do
-      her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only the broken
-      fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of passion, but
-      of calmest, most unselfish action,&mdash;ah, how unlike was she to that
-      Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, &ldquo;Take me with
-      you! I would rather die than have you leave me!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with
-      infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe
-      loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved
-      her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words having
-      been spoken? &ldquo;I will be your wife, dear Felipe,&rdquo; she said, speaking
-      solemnly, slowly, &ldquo;if you are sure it will make you happy, and if you
-      think it is right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Right!&rdquo; ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon.
-      &ldquo;Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will
-      forget you ever said that part of you was dead!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it might
-      have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of
-      Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after
-      their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda and
-      Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them. The story
-      of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly enhanced the
-      interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno
-      was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled with pride to see
-      the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was distinguished in all
-      assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. Ramona might well
-      doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood like sentinels in her
-      breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear,
-      her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, &ldquo;Majella!&rdquo; This was
-      the only secret her loyal, loving heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal,
-      loving heart indeed it was,&mdash;loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands so
-      blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all
-      beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the most
-      beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one who bore
-      the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the Senor,&mdash;Ramona,&mdash;Ramona,
-      daughter of Alessandro the Indian.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA ***
-
-***** This file should be named 2802-h.htm or 2802-h.zip *****
-This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
-        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/0/2802/
-
-Produced by David Reed, and David Widger
-
-
-Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
-will be renamed.
-
-Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
-one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
-(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
-permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
-set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
-copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
-protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
-Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
-charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
-do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
-rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
-such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
-research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
-practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
-subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
-redistribution.
-
-
-
-*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
-
-THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
-PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
-
-To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
-distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
-(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
-Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
-Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
-http://gutenberg.org/license).
-
-
-Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works
-
-1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
-and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
-(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
-the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
-all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
-If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
-terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
-entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
-
-1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
-used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
-agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
-things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
-paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
-and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
-
-1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
- or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
-collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
-individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
-located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
-copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
-works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
-are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
-Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
-freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
-this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
-the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
-keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
-Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
-
-1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
-what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
-a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
-the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
-before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
-creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
-Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
-the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
-States.
-
-1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
-
-1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
-access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
-whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
-phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
-Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
-copied or distributed:
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
-from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
-posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
-and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
-or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
-with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
-work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
-through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
-Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
-1.E.9.
-
-1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
-with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
-must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
-terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
-to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
-permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
-
-1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
-work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
-
-1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
-electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
-prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
-active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm License.
-
-1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
-compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
-word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
-distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
-&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
-posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
-you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
-copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
-request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
-form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
-
-1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
-performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
-unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
-access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
-that
-
-- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
-     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
-     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
-     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
-     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
-     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
-     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
-     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
-     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
-     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
-     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
-     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;
-
-- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
-     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
-     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-     License.  You must require such a user to return or
-     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
-     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
-     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
-     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
-     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
-     of receipt of the work.
-
-- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
-     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
-forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
-both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
-Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
-Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
-
-1.F.
-
-1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
-effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
-public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
-collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
-&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
-corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
-property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
-computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
-your equipment.
-
-1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
-of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
-fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
-LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
-PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
-TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
-LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
-INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
-DAMAGE.
-
-1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
-defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
-receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
-written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
-received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
-your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
-the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
-refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
-providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
-receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
-is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
-opportunities to fix the problem.
-
-1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
-in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
-WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
-WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
-
-1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
-warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
-If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
-law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
-interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
-the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
-provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
-
-1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
-trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
-providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
-with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
-promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
-harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
-that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
-or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
-work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
-Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
-
-
-Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
-electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
-including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
-because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
-people in all walks of life.
-
-Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
-assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
-goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
-remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
-and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
-To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
-and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
-and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
-
-
-Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
-Foundation
-
-The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
-501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
-state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
-Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
-number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
-http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
-permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
-
-The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
-Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
-throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
-809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
-business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
-information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
-page at http://pglaf.org
-
-For additional contact information:
-     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
-     Chief Executive and Director
-     gbnewby@pglaf.org
-
-
-Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
-spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
-increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
-freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
-array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
-($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
-status with the IRS.
-
-The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
-charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
-States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
-considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
-with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
-where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
-SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
-particular state visit http://pglaf.org
-
-While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
-have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
-against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
-approach us with offers to donate.
-
-International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
-any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
-outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
-
-Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
-methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
-ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
-To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
-
-
-Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works.
-
-Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
-concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
-with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
-Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
-
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
-editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
-unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
-keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
-
-
-Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
-
-     http://www.gutenberg.org
-
-This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
-including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
-subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
-
-
-</pre>
-  </body>
-</html>
diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802.txt b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 3e458fb..0000000
--- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,15627 +0,0 @@
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: Ramona
-
-Author: Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-Posting Date: December 31, 2008 [EBook #2802]
-Release Date: September, 2001
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: ASCII
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Reed
-
-
-
-
-
-RAMONA
-
-By Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing
-was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to
-put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the
-Senora's eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head
-of his mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch,
-the Senora thought. It had been always, "Ask Senor Felipe," "Go to Senor
-Felipe," "Senor Felipe will attend to it," ever since Felipe had had the
-dawning of a beard on his handsome face.
-
-In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all
-questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place,
-from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the
-Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and
-generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,--as for that matter, exceedingly
-clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever for the day
-and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere surface of it,
-if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow hot and
-cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New
-Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,--the waves of them
-all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had
-had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had brought
-her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said anything
-about herself, which she never did,--one of her many wisdoms. So quiet,
-so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to veil such an
-imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always passing
-through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did it;
-adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous force,
-wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect
-it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her rosary
-hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of
-mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a
-sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like her race, but
-sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice heightened this
-mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either loud or fast.
-There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech, which came
-near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which people
-speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear as if
-she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took heart;
-when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that the
-speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that
-she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, or
-in a way to best attain her ends.
-
-About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head
-shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him
-from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which
-would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's.
-
-Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were
-ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back
-with the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture.
-"There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with," he said one
-morning,--"at least a thousand;" and by the time they were done, Luigo
-would surely be back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in
-bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the
-wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The
-Senora did not realize how time was going; there would be no shearers
-to be hired presently, since the Senora was determined to have none
-but Indians. Of course, if she would employ Mexicans, as all the other
-ranches in the valley did, it would be different; but she was resolved
-upon having Indians,--"God knows why," he interpolated surlily, under
-his breath.
-
-"I do not quite understand you, Juan," interrupted Senora Moreno at the
-precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had
-escaped Juan's lips; "speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in
-my old age."
-
-What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on
-Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal
-as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he
-instantly and involuntarily said, "Beg your pardon, Senora."
-
-"Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan," the Senora replied with
-exquisite gentleness; "it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I
-have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did.
-But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he
-had positively engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn,
-Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for
-them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the
-best shearers in the country. He will be well enough in a week or two,
-he thinks, and the poor sheep must bear their loads a few days longer.
-Are they looking well, do you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one?
-General Moreno used to say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a
-pound, while it was on the sheep's backs."
-
-"Yes, Senora," answered the mollified Juan; "the poor beasts look
-wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all winter.
-We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any.
-Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that--Luigo will
-bring his flock back."
-
-The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which
-Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous
-epithet before Luigo's name.
-
-This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan
-Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down
-as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe.
-
-Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: "Senor Felipe can see
-no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him,
-he will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep
-worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While
-I can have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well;
-but he is no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of
-the very lambs themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and
-starve them the next; and I've known him to forget to give them water.
-When he's in his dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do."
-
-During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the
-Senora's countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen
-it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down into the
-upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping and
-gambolling and barking at his feet.
-
-"Down, Capitan, down!" he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him;
-"thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice."
-
-"I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito," said the Senora in a sweet
-but icy tone. "It is not well for one servant to backbite another.
-It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father
-Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to confess this sin
-of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being.
-If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out
-homeless on the world some day; and what sort of a deed would that be,
-Juan Canito, for one Christian to do to another? I fear the Father will
-give you penance, when he hears what you have said."
-
-"Senora, it is not to harm the lad," Juan began, every fibre of his
-faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach.
-
-But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more
-from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual
-slow pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left
-hand, and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads.
-
-"Prayers, always prayers!" thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed
-her. "If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight
-road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to do, if
-he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to
-stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything?
-Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the General died,--an ill
-day! an ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set
-me to confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've
-got me to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's
-a man, maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!" And the old man stamped his
-foot with a not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in
-which he felt himself put.
-
-"Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!" he muttered aloud. "Ay, that
-will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,"--at which slip of the
-tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,--"and I'll ask him to
-give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy
-at the head of everything, and a doting mother who thinks he has the
-wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden
-time. He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now,
-much smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill
-day indeed, the saints rest his soul!" Saying this, Juan shrugged his
-shoulders, and whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of
-the south side of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for
-twenty odd years his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe
-of a morning. Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however,
-a thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick
-sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could
-only come from something in connection with sheep; and, true to his
-instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run,
-and looked up in his master's face waiting for explanation and signal.
-But Juan did not observe him.
-
-"Ha!" he said, "Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's
-see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come
-off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the
-chapel, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least
-two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by that and by
-the confessions. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad.
-I recollect now, it was the same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a
-good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and
-then; and it's like old times to see the chapel full of them kneeling,
-and more than can get in at the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's
-heart to see them all there, as if they belonged to the house, as
-they used to: and now I know when it's to be, I have only to make my
-arrangements accordingly. It is always in the first week of the month
-the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough
-in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or
-thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for
-not being back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow boughs
-for the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and
-another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming head
-he's got on his shoulders."
-
-Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor
-Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him
-in good humor for the day,--good humor with everybody, and himself most
-of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the
-whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole
-width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner
-of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid
-content. The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen
-quarters of Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable
-as in the grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth
-across Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by
-help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though
-loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen.
-
-"What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?" saucily asked
-Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out
-of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled
-that the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as
-Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so
-safe in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the
-under-shepherds could testify.
-
-"The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita," answered Juan
-quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock
-bow towards the window.
-
-"He! he! Senorita, indeed!" chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the
-cook. "Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his
-betters;" and she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean water
-so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had
-the appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand
-the whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys,
-all set up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed to the four corners of
-the yard as if scattered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket,
-the rest of the maids came running,--Anita and Maria, the twins, women
-forty years old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought
-home his handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the
-Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old
-Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was
-said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could
-tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing
-except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was
-never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one
-crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old
-Juanita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans
-in the pod (tons of them, one would think), enough to feed an army. But
-then, it was like a little army even now, the Senora's household; nobody
-ever knew exactly how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men
-in the fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or
-widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's
-husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or down the valley.
-When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages;
-but who were fed and lodged under his roof, that was quite another
-thing. It could not enter into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make
-either count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful niggardly
-thought.
-
-To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the
-place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the
-work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled.
-In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never
-less than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his
-gates each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time
-had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden
-rush and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's
-letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, "Good heavens,
-do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!" the
-Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was,
-"Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has
-to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help
-her." And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to
-her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The
-picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it
-met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,--only a second,
-however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to
-have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was
-saying to him, "Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and
-are better," there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation,
-"O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his
-father! He is fit for a kingdom!"
-
-The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had
-been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding
-it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a
-king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a
-throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up,
-better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said,
-whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the
-face of his father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe
-once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the
-gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at
-the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which
-his father had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her
-first look at him,--fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and
-saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her
-in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again.
-
-"Mother, mother mia," cried Felipe, "I will not wear them if it makes
-you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed
-parade;" and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to
-unbuckle the sword-belt.
-
-"No, no, Felipe," faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. "It is my
-wish that you wear them;" and staggering to her feet, with a burst of
-tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many
-times--never unkissed--buckled, in the days when her husband had bade
-her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. "Wear
-them!" she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry
-of tears,--"wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican
-officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base,
-usurping feet on our necks!" And she followed him to the gate, and stood
-erect, bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was
-out of sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly
-to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at
-the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that
-she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From
-which part of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to
-imagine.
-
-Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father
-Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not
-in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of
-Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still
-more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on
-between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep
-on the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two
-together and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were,
-and not to be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation.
-
-"Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing," said
-the Senora. "I suppose you are still of the same mind about it,
-Felipe,--that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As
-the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem
-a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very
-restive. He is getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your
-control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my
-part, am like to forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to
-lean on."
-
-Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile
-of filial affection and gratified manly vanity. "Indeed, my mother, if
-I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the
-saints;" and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at
-once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a
-lover might have done. "You will spoil me, mother," he said, "you make
-me so proud."
-
-"No, Felipe, it is I who am proud," promptly replied the mother; "and I
-do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me
-a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me
-through the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content,
-seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman
-should; that is, so far as now remains possible in this unfortunate
-country. But about the sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it
-begun before the Father is here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready
-with his band. It is but two days' journey for a messenger to bring
-him. Father Salvierderra cannot be here before the 10th of the month. He
-leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and he will walk all the way,--a good
-six days' journey, for he is old now and feeble; then he must stop
-in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the
-Lopez's,--there, there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very
-earliest that he can be here,--near two weeks from now. So far as your
-getting up is concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be
-nearly well by that time."
-
-"Yes, indeed," laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and
-giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the
-fringed canopy roof shake and creak; "I am well now, if it were not for
-this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me
-good to get out of doors."
-
-In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It
-was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it;
-and two weeks looked long to wait.
-
-"It is always thus after a fever," said his mother. "The weakness lasts
-many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two
-weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood
-at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting
-for you for that!"
-
-"He said that, did he!" exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. "The old man is
-getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but
-myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when
-I please, and not before."
-
-"I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till
-the Father comes, would it?" asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the
-thing were evenly balanced in her mind. "The Father has not that hold
-on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in
-Juan himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is
-spreading in the country since the Americans are running up and down
-everywhere seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It
-might vex Juan if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father.
-What do you think?"
-
-"I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for
-my pleasure," answered Felipe, still wrathful, "and that is the end of
-it." And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno
-had had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito
-himself suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As
-for Felipe, if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother,
-and not he, who had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better
-deferred until the arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara,
-and that nothing should be said on the ranch about this being the real
-reason of the postponing, Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and
-have thought that person either crazy or a fool.
-
-To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never
-to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men,
-as instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that
-one gets from a hand or a foot,--this is to triumph, indeed: to be as
-nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have
-been men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who
-have sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a
-great degree. By it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors,
-sovereigns; and have grasped, held, and played with the destinies
-of empires. But it is to be questioned whether even in these notable
-instances there has ever been such marvellous completeness of success
-as is sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an
-instinct and not an attainment; a passion rather than a purpose.
-Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just that
-difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of talent and
-the stroke of genius.
-
-Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.
-
-
-
-
-II
-
-THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found
-in California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half
-elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men
-and women of degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of
-the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still
-the law of the land, and its old name, "New Spain," was an ever-present
-link and stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its
-people.
-
-It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more
-also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen
-again on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still;
-industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its
-century,--in fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left
-standing one such house as the Senora Moreno's.
-
-When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a
-radius of forty miles,--forty miles westward, down the valley to the
-sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good
-forty miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very
-strictly defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon
-land by inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno
-owned all this land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It
-was not and could not be answered to the satisfaction of the United
-States Land Commission, which, after the surrender of California,
-undertook to sift and adjust Mexican land titles; and that was the
-way it had come about that the Senora Moreno now called herself a poor
-woman. Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away from her; it
-looked for a time as if nothing would be left. Every one of the claims
-based on deeds of gift from Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most
-intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by the board in one
-batch, and took away from the Senora in a day the greater part of
-her best pasture-lands. They were lands which had belonged to the
-Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the mouth of the valley
-down which the little stream which ran past her house went to the sea;
-and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora, when she was
-young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all the way on
-their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip of shore.
-No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them always
-as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least
-realized that the taking possession of California was not only a
-conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the
-real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which
-gave up the country, as to the country itself which was given up.
-Provinces passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of
-great powers, have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none
-of the dignities or compensations of the transaction.
-
-Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself
-beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such
-a transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country;
-probably none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it.
-
-Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the
-valley was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which
-had once belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura;
-and after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and
-adjudications were ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of
-what would have been thought by any new-comer into the country to be a
-handsome estate, but which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora
-a pitiful fragment of one. Moreover, she declared that she should never
-feel secure of a foot of even this. Any day, she said, the United States
-Government might send out a new Land Commission to examine the decrees
-of the first, and revoke such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a
-thief. Nobody need feel himself safe under American rule. There was
-no knowing what might happen any day; and year by year the lines of
-sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism deepened on the Senora's
-fast aging face.
-
-It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out
-a road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of
-past the front. "It is well," she said. "Let their travel be where it
-belongs, behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the front doors
-of our houses, except friends who have come to visit us." Her enjoyment
-of this never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wagons
-or carriages belonging to the hated Americans, it gave her a distinct
-thrill of pleasure to think that the house turned its back on them. She
-would like always to be able to do the same herself; but whatever she,
-by policy or in business, might be forced to do, the old house, at any
-rate, would always keep the attitude of contempt,--its face turned away.
-
-One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was
-opened,--a pleasure in which religious devotion and race antagonism were
-so closely blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of priests to
-decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. She caused to be set
-up, upon every one of the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful
-rolling sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross; not a
-hill in sight of her house left without the sacred emblem of her faith.
-"That the heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the
-estate of a good Catholic," she said, "and that the faithful may be
-reminded to pray. There have been miracles of conversion wrought on the
-most hardened by a sudden sight of the Blessed Cross."
-
-There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn,
-outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller
-who had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left
-or the right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses,
-which he couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not
-often happen that the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle
-heart journeying by, and thus justified the pious half of the Senora's
-impulse? Certain it is, that many a good Catholic halted and crossed
-himself when he first beheld them, in the lonely places, standing out in
-sudden relief against the blue sky; and if he said a swift short prayer
-at the sight, was he not so much the better?
-
-The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of
-the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which
-looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner
-court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the
-family life went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when
-it was necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was
-done here, in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept,
-were washed, sat in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said
-their prayers, took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita
-shelled her beans there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor,
-till towards night they were sometimes piled up high around her, like
-corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and shepherds smoked there,
-lounged there, trained their dogs there; there the young made love, and
-the old dozed; the benches, which ran the entire length of the walls,
-were worn into hollows, and shone like satin; the tiled floors also were
-broken and sunk in places, making little wells, which filled up in times
-of hard rains, and were then an invaluable addition to the children's
-resources for amusement, and also to the comfort of the dogs, cats, and
-fowls, who picked about among them, taking sips from each.
-
-The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must
-have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms
-opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four
-steps higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the
-look of a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great
-red water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission,
-stood in close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing
-fine geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's
-passion for musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong
-that she sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father
-Salvierderra in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and
-giving them to him, said, "I do not know why it is, but it seems to me
-if I were dead I could be brought to life by the smell of musk."
-
-"It is in your blood, Senora," the old monk replied. "When I was last in
-your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room,
-and under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so
-filled the room with its odor that I was like to faint. But she said
-it cured her of diseases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby
-then."
-
-"Yes," cried the Senora, "but I recollect that balcony. I recollect
-being lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of blooming
-yellow flowers; but I did not know what they were. How strange!"
-
-"No. Not strange, daughter," replied Father Salvierderra. "It would have
-been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with
-the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remember this far more
-than they do."
-
-Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there
-were many sorts of climbing vines,--some coming from the ground, and
-twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls,
-swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against
-the walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished,
-shining smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians,
-nobody knew how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient
-creatures, with only stones for tools.
-
-Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the
-Senora's canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different
-generations, raised by the Senora. She was never without a young
-bird-family on hand; and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it
-was thought a piece of good luck to come into possession of a canary or
-finch of Senora Moreno's 'raising.
-
-Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all
-was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always
-green, never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never
-without flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early
-spring, a fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from
-the hills on the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise
-clouds had fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand
-stretched away other orchards,--peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate;
-and beyond these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or
-bloom or fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south
-veranda.
-
-A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with
-grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led
-straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden,
-to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade
-of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone
-washboards on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling,
-and no running away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to
-the eye of the Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had
-known how picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting
-the dripping linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the
-stones, sousing it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each
-other's faces, they would have been content to stay at the washing day
-in and day out, for there was always somebody to look on from above.
-Hardly a day passed that the Senora had not visitors. She was still
-a person of note; her house the natural resting-place for all who
-journeyed through the valley; and whoever came, spent all of his time,
-when not eating, sleeping, or walking over the place, sitting with the
-Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in winter were cold enough, and
-in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her friends
-indoors. There stood on the veranda three carved oaken chairs, and a
-carved bench, also of oak, which had been brought to the Senora for safe
-keeping by the faithful old sacristan of San Luis Rey, at the time of
-the occupation of that Mission by the United States troops, soon after
-the conquest of California. Aghast at the sacrilegious acts of the
-soldiers, who were quartered in the very church itself, and amused
-themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of the saints'
-statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after night,
-bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some
-articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little
-hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more
-stealthily, he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of
-a cart, under a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who
-felt herself deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything
-as a sacred trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again,
-whenever the Missions should be restored, of which at that time all
-Catholics had good hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the
-Senora's house was without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the
-Madonna; and some had two; and in the little chapel in the garden the
-altar was surrounded by a really imposing row of holy and apostolic
-figures, which had looked down on the splendid ceremonies of the San
-Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no more benignly than they
-now did on the humbler worship of the Senora's family in its diminished
-estate. That one had lost an eye, another an arm, that the once
-brilliant colors of the drapery were now faded and shabby, only enhanced
-the tender reverence with which the Senora knelt before them, her eyes
-filling with indignant tears at thought of the heretic hands which
-had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling wreaths which had been
-placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial
-at which they had figured in the Mission, had been brought away with
-them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had replaced each one,
-holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue itself.
-
-This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built
-by the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four
-children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome
-Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's
-time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living
-within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be
-witnessed there was like the scenes at the Missions,--the chapel full of
-kneeling men and women; those who could not find room inside kneeling
-on the garden walks outside; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous
-vestments, coming, at close of the services, slowly down the aisle, the
-close-packed rows of worshippers parting to right and left to let him
-through, all looking up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him
-offerings of fruit or flowers, and holding up their babies that he might
-lay his hands on their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever
-officiated in the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He
-was a Franciscan, one of the few now left in the country; so revered and
-beloved by all who had come under his influence, that they would wait
-long months without the offices of the Church, rather than confess
-their sins or confide their perplexities to any one else. From this
-deep-seated attachment on the part of the Indians and the older Mexican
-families in the country to the Franciscan Order, there had grown up,
-not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in the minds of the later-come
-secular priests, and the position of the few monks left was not wholly a
-pleasant one. It had even been rumored that they were to be forbidden
-to continue longer their practice of going up and down the country,
-ministering everywhere; were to be compelled to restrict their labors
-to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa Inez. When something
-to this effect was one day said in the Senora Moreno's presence, two
-scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought herself,
-she exclaimed, "That day, I burn down my chapel!"
-
-Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of
-unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself.
-
-"I spoke rashly, my son," she said. "The Church is to be obeyed always;
-but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but the Superior of
-their own order; and there is no one in this land who has the authority
-to forbid their journeying and ministering to whoever desires their
-offices. As for these Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot
-abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood in his veins!"
-
-There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly
-attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the
-gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented
-the things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father
-Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship
-which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara
-Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was
-at that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment
-and romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the
-gayeties, excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the
-ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as
-the most beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the
-navy, and men of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast
-from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe
-Moreno, one of the most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her
-wedding ceremonies were the most splendid ever seen in the country.
-The right tower of the Mission church at Santa Barbara had been just
-completed, and it was arranged that the consecration of this tower
-should take place at the time of her wedding, and that her wedding feast
-should be spread in the long outside corridor of the Mission building.
-The whole country, far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days;
-open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating, drinking, and making
-merry. At that time there were long streets of Indian houses stretching
-eastward from the Mission; before each of these houses was built a booth
-of green boughs. The Indians, as well as the Fathers from all the other
-Missions, were invited to come. The Indians came in bands, singing songs
-and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the Santa Barbara Indians went
-out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on
-the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora and her bridegroom,
-splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, whenever they
-appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third
-day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles in their
-hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and round the
-new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy water
-on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a
-blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the
-newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied
-by several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan
-Fathers, up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and
-being warmly welcomed and entertained at each.
-
-General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the
-frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers
-he, being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and
-enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material
-assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having
-heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission
-churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers
-either in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the
-daughter of a distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara
-Superior, he had linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and
-interests of the country.
-
-When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned
-out to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the
-Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer,
-took the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force
-compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high
-up by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across
-the corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously
-undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly.
-
-"Oh, let them do it, if they like," he cried, laughingly, to Padre
-Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back.
-"Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures."
-
-On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all
-his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to
-be driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry
-belonging to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For
-music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing,
-quacking of the fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and
-whip-cracking of the excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came
-the turkeys, then the roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and
-then the yellow, next the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle
-long files of geese, some strutting, some half flying and hissing in
-resentment and terror at the unwonted coercions to which they were
-subjected. The Indians had been hard at work all night capturing,
-sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and file of their novel
-pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight never was seen,
-and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other. Before it was done
-with, the General and his bride had nearly died with laughter; and the
-General could never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily
-again.
-
-At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the
-Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor,
-balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of
-festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The
-belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for
-these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to
-her. This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman.
-She was then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then,
-underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look
-thoughtful, tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the
-reflection of those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made
-her, as years developed her character and stormy fates thickened around
-her life, the unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate
-adherent of the Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions,
-downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint,
-her poise, remained the same. She simply grew more and more proudly,
-passionately, a Spaniard and a Moreno; more and more stanchly and
-fierily a Catholic, and a lover of the Franciscans.
-
-During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions,
-under the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside
-herself. More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by
-no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of
-the Missions to more energetic action, to implore the governmental
-authorities to interfere, and protect the Church's property. It
-was largely in consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor
-Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the
-Missions south of San Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his
-political head, and General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the
-skirmishes of the insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the
-country.
-
-In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back
-to health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her
-unhappy country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she
-saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties
-melting away, like dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest
-administrators and politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the
-unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven
-from the country or dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted
-herself to what, she was forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable
-will of God for the discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort
-of bewildered resignation she waited to see what further sufferings
-were to come, to fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some
-mysterious purpose, the faithful must endure. But when close upon
-all this discomfiture and humiliation of her Church followed the
-discomfiture and humiliation of her country in war, and the near and
-evident danger of an English-speaking people's possessing the land,
-all the smothered fire of the Senora's nature broke out afresh. With
-unfaltering hands she buckled on her husband's sword, and with dry eyes
-saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret, that she was not the
-mother of sons to fight also.
-
-"Would thou wert a man, Felipe," she exclaimed again and again in tones
-the child never forgot. "Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also
-to fight these foreigners!"
-
-Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than
-the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came
-trading to post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being
-forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be
-believed. In the outset she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in
-the contest.
-
-"What!" she cried, "shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten
-by these traders? It is impossible!"
-
-When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight
-the Mexican forces made, she said icily, "He would have chosen to die
-rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of
-the enemy." And she was almost frightened at herself to see how this
-thought, as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had
-believed she could not live if her husband were to be taken away from
-her; but she found herself often glad that he was dead,--glad that he
-was spared the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened;
-and even the yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured
-him among the saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether
-indignation did not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things
-were going in the land for whose sake he had died.
-
-Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made
-Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew,
-who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental
-girl, who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed
-with the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now,
-in the low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling,
-placid-faced, who manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike,
-to bring it about that a handful of Indians might once more confess
-their sins to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.
-
-
-
-
-III
-
-JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's
-family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona.
-Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the
-Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present.
-For one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of
-the Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that
-flashed with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the
-shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry,
-all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The
-Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never could love her; and
-yet she had stood in the place of mother to the girl ever since her
-childhood, and never once during the whole sixteen years of her life had
-shown her any unkindness in act. She had promised to be a mother to her;
-and with all the inalienable stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the
-letter of her promise. More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was
-not the Senora's fault.
-
-The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's
-acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know--and no one
-ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno--who Ramona's parents
-were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name not
-being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended
-and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and
-women here and there in the country could have told the strange story
-of Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much
-had happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she
-was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of
-the generation just going out were not the business of the young people
-coming in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what
-was the use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to
-be forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer
-evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all
-young men and maidens thrilled who heard it.
-
-It was an elder sister of the Senora's,--a sister old enough to be wooed
-and won while the Senora was yet at play,--who had been promised in
-marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a beautiful
-woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her standing in
-the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like a man
-bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for
-Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest
-accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus
-she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only
-after his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise
-to become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey,
-and Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line
-of ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs,
-carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came
-in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; and
-Angus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully
-well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best
-houses, wherever his ships went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.
-
-The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour
-her lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to
-each other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north.
-It was remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the
-Senorita, that she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face
-away, long before her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the
-"San Jose" said that Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward,
-till nightfall shut from his sight even the horizon line at which the
-Monterey ship had long before disappeared from view.
-
-This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor
-was pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he
-would bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her,
-treasures of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through
-the long weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the
-waves, and letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins,
-velvets, laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When
-he could not longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would
-pace the deck, swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those
-of one flying in fear; at such times the men heard him muttering and
-whispering to himself, "Ramona! Ramona!" Mad with love from the first
-to the last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if he
-had ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reason
-would have fled forever at that moment, and he would have killed either
-her or himself, as men thus mad have been known to do. But that hour
-never came. When, eight months later, the "San Jose" sailed into the
-Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, the
-second man he met, no friend of his, looking him maliciously in
-the face, said. "So, ho! You're just too late for the wedding! Your
-sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to a
-fine young officer of the Monterey Presidio!"
-
-Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the
-ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house,
-and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the
-hands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran
-bareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped
-by the guard, who knew him.
-
-"Is it true?" gasped Angus.
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook
-under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he
-would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into
-a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street,
-singing and laughing.
-
-The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was
-seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and
-lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was
-Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.
-
-"See what the Senorita escaped!" said the thoughtless. "She was quite
-right not to have married such a drunken wretch."
-
-In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he
-possessed,--ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds squandered
-in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride. He did not
-seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it, and soon
-returned with her husband to Monterey.
-
-Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los
-Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission,
-and was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more
-surprising news that he had married a squaw,--a squaw with several
-Indian children,--had been legally married by the priest in the San
-Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless Ramona
-Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after her
-marriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How he
-had gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stood
-before her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing
-himself up to the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her
-sternly, with eyes blue like steel, he said: "Senora Ortegna, you once
-did me a great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has
-denied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and the
-Lord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at your
-hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as a
-child of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?"
-
-The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord
-had indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her
-childlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of them.
-Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the child. He
-placed it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed.
-
-"I do not know if I will be permitted," she said falteringly; "my
-husband--"
-
-"Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him," replied Angus.
-
-The Senora's face brightened. "If that be so, I hope it can be as you
-wish," she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking
-down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, "But the child's mother?"
-
-Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle
-and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the
-full how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of
-his hand, which spoke volumes, he said: "That is nothing. She has other
-children, of her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. I
-wish her to be yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church."
-
-With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in
-her arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the
-infant. At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. "Oh,
-no! not to the Church! I will love it as my own," she said.
-
-Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in
-their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful,
-so dear. "I should hardly have known you, Senora!" burst from him
-involuntarily.
-
-She smiled piteously, with no resentment. "That is not strange. I hardly
-know myself," she whispered. "Life has dealt very hardly with me.
-I should not have known you either--Angus." She pronounced his name
-hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables,
-so long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in his
-hands, and sobbed out: "O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here,
-not wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you
-sure you wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not."
-
-"Never, so long as I live, Angus," replied Senora Ortegna. "Already I
-feel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in
-her presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?"
-
-Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. "Before I had thought
-of bringing her to you," he stammered, "at first I had only the thought
-of giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by"--the words
-refused to leave his lips--"the name--Can you not guess, Senora, what
-name she bears?"
-
-The Senora knew. "My own?" she said.
-
-Angus bowed his head. "The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke
-with love," he said, reassured, "was the name my daughter should bear."
-
-"It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between
-them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a
-simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms
-with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the
-hands which lovingly held his sleeping child.
-
-"God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more," he cried,
-and was gone.
-
-In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to
-say in a low tone, "There is no need to be alarmed if the child does not
-wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her.
-It will not harm her."
-
-One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two
-lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again,
-forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been
-bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart
-of the man it was the old passionate adoring love reawakening;
-a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with lineaments
-unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no buried love to
-come to such resurrection in her heart, for she had never loved Angus
-Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, heartbroken, she woke at that
-moment to the realization of what manner of love it had been which she
-had thrown away in her youth; her whole being yearned for it now, and
-Angus was avenged.
-
-When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into
-his wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his
-eyes,--his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay,
-smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant.
-
-"What in the devil's name," he began; then recollecting, he muttered:
-"Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your
-first child!" and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by,
-giving the cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed.
-
-The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since
-passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But
-it was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from
-that day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments
-where there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight
-of her baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency.
-
-Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed
-from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's
-character was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful
-dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country.
-But from the wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of
-complaint. She was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But
-now she saw a reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was
-plain to her that she had not many years to live; and what then would
-become of the child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only
-too certain what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the
-lonely woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly
-endeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own death had
-not occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust.
-
-Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian
-messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He
-brought her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day
-before his death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a
-quarter of a century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought
-for his bride. These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the
-lowest depths of his degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him
-from parting with them. The letter contained only these words: "I send
-you all I have to leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself this
-year. I wished to kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying.
-Farewell."
-
-After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not
-till she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had
-put the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a
-solemn promise that at her own death she would adopt the little
-Ramona. This promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father
-Salvierderra's influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any
-dealings with such alien and mongrel blood, "If the child were pure
-Indian, I would like it better," she said. "I like not these crosses. It
-is the worst, and not the best of each, that remains."
-
-But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew
-that her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's
-future was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life
-the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly
-and defiantly infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations
-in his wife's presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her
-helpless invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga
-blood to endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke
-to her husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to
-see her die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and
-damasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling
-into the hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would
-stand in her place as soon as the funeral services had been said over
-her dead body.
-
-Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno
-conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to
-be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas
-lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never
-ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their
-lonely wretchedness.
-
-One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell
-to her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little
-four-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next
-morning set sail for home.
-
-When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all
-kinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off,
-post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding
-their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of
-instructions to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in
-trust for Ramona; also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading
-which he sank into a fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and
-gave his infamous associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost
-their comrade. But he soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and
-settled back into his old gait on the same old high-road to the devil.
-Father Salvierderra could alarm him, but not save him.
-
-And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never
-told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It
-was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them
-nothing but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last.
-
-How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in
-her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was
-ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a
-little child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, "Senora, why
-did my mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?"
-
-Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: "Your mother had nothing
-whatever to do with it. It was your father."
-
-"Was my mother dead?" continued the child.
-
-Too late the Senora saw her mistake. "I do not know," she replied; which
-was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never saw your
-mother."
-
-"Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?" persisted Ramona.
-
-"No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the
-innocent child's unconscious touch.
-
-Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her
-eyes tearful. At last she said, "I wish I knew if my mother was dead."
-
-"Why?" asked the Senora.
-
-"Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to
-stay with her."
-
-The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience.
-Taking the child in her arms, she said, "Who has been talking to you of
-these things, Ramona?"
-
-"Juan Can," she replied.
-
-"What did he say?" asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded
-no good to Juan Canito.
-
-"It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,"
-answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various
-reminiscences on the subject. "Twice I heard him. He said that my mother
-was no good, and that my father was bad too." And the tears rolled down
-the child's cheeks.
-
-The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness,
-now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said,
-with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, "Ramona must
-not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it.
-He never saw either your father or your mother, and so he could know
-nothing about them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man.
-He was my friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was the
-reason he gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of
-her own. And I think your mother had a good many."
-
-"Oh!" said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the
-situation,--that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to the
-Senora Ortegna. "Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very
-much?"
-
-"Yes, very much indeed," said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. "She
-had grieved many years because she had no child."
-
-Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart,
-grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts
-into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the
-Senora by saying in a half-whisper, "Why did not my father bring me to
-you first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?"
-
-The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said:
-"Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I
-was only a child, then."
-
-"Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe," continued
-Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without
-noticing the Senora's reply. "A son is more than a daughter; but most
-people have both," eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this
-would bring.
-
-But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very
-mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability
-to love Ramona had swept through her mind. "Ramona," she said firmly,
-"while you are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things.
-When you are a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about your
-father and your mother. It is very little. Your father died when you
-were only two years old. All that you have to do is to be a good child,
-and say your prayers, and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be
-pleased with you. And he will not be pleased if you ask troublesome
-questions. Don't ever speak to me again about this. When the proper time
-comes I will tell you myself."
-
-This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again
-asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had
-been a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been
-always pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her
-year by year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to
-tell her anything more about her father and mother. There were few
-mornings on which the girl did not think, "Perhaps it may be to-day
-that she will tell me." But she would not ask. Every word of that
-conversation was as vivid in her mind as it had been the day it
-occurred; and it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that during
-every day of the whole nine years had deepened in her heart the
-conviction which had prompted the child's question, "Did he know that
-you did not want any daughter?"
-
-A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at
-least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never
-put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem
-sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity,
-with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as
-resignation is above rebellious repining.
-
-No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual
-conduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face
-was sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human
-being without a cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her
-industry was tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent
-of the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her
-at much personal sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno
-estate had ever seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters,
-who spoke of her habitually as the "blessed child." They had taught her
-all the dainty arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions
-of painting and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out of
-books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and romance.
-For serious study or for deep thought she had no vocation. She was a
-simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful nature, like a clear brook
-rippling along in the sun,--a nature as unlike as possible to the
-Senora's, with its mysterious depths and stormy, hidden currents.
-
-Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender,
-sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only
-express by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty
-possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on
-Senora Moreno, though its source she never suspected; and it won no new
-recognition from her for Ramona, no increase of love.
-
-But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all
-this graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and
-more he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody
-knew so well as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew
-what it meant, how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe
-had learned while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother
-was to appear to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated
-him. And long before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of
-keeping to himself most of the things he thought and felt about his
-little playmate sister,--a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly
-ripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years.
-
-
-
-
-IV
-
-IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before
-Father Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the
-year that she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey
-that he could make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his
-body that had failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have
-been nothing to him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and
-happy thoughts, stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories
-and still sadder anticipations,--the downfall of the Missions, the loss
-of their vast estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land.
-The final decision of the United States Government in regard to the
-Mission-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed
-that ultimate restoration of these great estates to the Church was
-inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept when at home at the
-Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement
-in the church, and praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had
-often had visions vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the
-Mission establishments should be reinstated in all their old splendor
-and prosperity, and their Indian converts again numbered by tens of
-thousands.
-
-Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate
-these visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they
-must come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year
-he journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission,
-the buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold,
-and settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing,
-driven back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble
-work of his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his
-faith died out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself,
-also, were giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as
-Francis of Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in
-a purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for
-any sort of secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable
-clothes while there were others suffering for want of them--and
-there were always such--seemed to him a sin for which one might not
-undeservedly be smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the
-Brothers again and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away
-to the first beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have
-been left bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had
-not been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could
-not give them all away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often
-sublime sight, a man who has survived, not only his own time, but
-the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the
-bitterness of exile, the anguish of friendlessness at their utmost,
-are in it; and yet it is so much greater than they, that even they seem
-small part of it.
-
-It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near
-the home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those
-midsummer days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The
-almonds had bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the
-peaches and pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy
-tint of green, so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray.
-The willows were vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and
-glossy like laurel. The billowy hills on either side the valley were
-covered with verdure and bloom,--myriads of low blossoming plants, so
-close to the earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each other,
-and on the green of the grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each
-other and blend into a changeful color.
-
-The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern
-California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they
-are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in
-the sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck.
-
-Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture.
-Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself
-permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed
-them with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,--all
-members of the sacred choir praising God.
-
-It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh
-drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old
-man resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down.
-The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the
-Church,--alien hands reaping its fulness, establishing new customs,
-new laws. All the way down the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen,
-at every stopping-place, new tokens of the settling up of the
-country,--farms opening, towns growing; the Americans pouring in, at
-all points, to reap the advantages of their new possessions. It was
-this which had made his journey heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in
-approaching the Senora Moreno's, as if he were coming to one of the last
-sure strongholds of the Catholic faith left in the country.
-
-When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the
-highway into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut
-through the hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was
-more than a year since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing
-fainter and fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard,
-he said to himself, "I think no one can have passed through here this
-year."
-
-As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild
-mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New
-Testament, in the branches of which the birds of the air may rest.
-Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find
-starting-point in an inch, it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five,
-ten, twenty feet, with hundreds of fine feathery branches locking
-and interlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till it is an
-inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts into yellow bloom still
-finer, more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so infinitesimally
-small, and of so dark a green, that at a short distance they do not
-show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating in the air; at times it
-looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky behind it, as it is often
-seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The plant is a tyrant and a
-nuisance,--the terror of the farmer; it takes riotous possession of a
-whole field in a season; once in, never out; for one plant this year, a
-million the next; but it is impossible to wish that the land were freed
-from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold
-is in the pocket.
-
-Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these
-delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could
-make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one
-would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma,
-and not unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his
-journey's end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through
-the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He
-paused,--listened. It was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing
-nearer, apparently from the direction in which he was going. At
-intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again; as if by a sudden but
-brief interruption, like that made by question and answer. Then, peering
-ahead through the mustard blossoms, he saw them waving and bending, and
-heard sounds as if they were being broken. Evidently some one entering
-on the path from the opposite end had been caught in the fragrant
-thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer, though still low and sweet
-as the twilight notes of the thrush; the mustard branches waved more and
-more violently; light steps were now to be heard. Father Salvierderra
-stood still as one in a dream, his eyes straining forward into the
-golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, distinct and clear to
-his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint Francis's
-inimitable lyric, "The Canticle of the Sun:"
-
-"Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for
-our brother the Sun,--who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and
-splendor shadows forth unto us thine."
-
-"Ramona!" exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure.
-"The blessed child!" And as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in
-a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to right and
-left with her hands, and half crept, half danced through the loop-hole
-openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood
-was not too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture. A man must
-be dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best
-enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. She had just
-enough of olive tint in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin
-without making it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy
-and black, but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those
-who came very near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were blue, for
-the heavy black eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shadowed
-them that they looked black as night. At the same instant that Father
-Salvierderra first caught sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and
-crying out joyfully, "Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path,
-and something told me you were near!" she sprang forward, and sank on
-her knees before him, bowing her head for his blessing. In silence he
-laid his hands on her brow. It would not have been easy for him to speak
-to her at that first moment. She had looked to the devout old monk, as
-she sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling on
-her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, more like an
-apparition of an angel or saint, than like the flesh-and-blood maiden
-whom he had carried in his arms when she was a babe.
-
-"We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!" she said,
-rising. "We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers have been
-sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the reason I felt so
-sure you would come. I knew the Virgin would bring you in time for mass
-in the chapel on the first morning."
-
-The monk smiled half sadly. "Would there were more with such faith as
-yours, daughter," he said. "Are all well on the place?"
-
-"Yes, Father, all well," she answered. "Felipe has been ill with a
-fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for--for your
-coming."
-
-Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,--"fretting for the
-sheep-shearing," but recollected herself in time.
-
-"And the Senora?" said the Father.
-
-"She is well," answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of
-tone,--so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute observer
-would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she spoke of
-the Senora Moreno. "And you,--are you well yourself, Father?" she asked
-affectionately, noting with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old
-man walked, and that he carried what she had never before seen in his
-hand,--a stout staff to steady his steps. "You must be very tired with
-the long journey on foot."
-
-"Ay, Ramona, I am tired," he replied. "Old age is conquering me. It will
-not be many times more that I shall see this place."
-
-"Oh, do not say that, Father," cried Ramona; "you can ride, when it
-tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, that
-she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not right for
-you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we have hundreds of
-horses. It is nothing, one horse," she added, seeing the Father slowly
-shake his head.
-
-"No;" he said, "it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the hands
-of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. We
-must deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, Father
-Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego to Monterey,
-and all the while a running ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men
-would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sinful fashion that
-is coming in, for monks to take their ease doing God's work. I can no
-longer walk swiftly, but I must walk all the more diligently."
-
-While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona
-slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and
-holding them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they
-came out from the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, "There is Felipe, in
-the willows. I told him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me.
-Now he will see I was right."
-
-Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and
-the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been
-cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees,
-as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind
-blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in
-gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate
-welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times
-since she became a woman, "How beautiful Felipe is! No wonder the Senora
-loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like that she would have
-liked me better." Never was a little child more unconscious of her own
-beauty than Ramona still was. All the admiration which was expressed
-to her in word and look she took for simple kindness and good-will.
-Her face, as she herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She
-compared her straight, massive black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and
-delicately pencilled, and found her own ugly. The expression of gentle
-repose which her countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of
-stupidity. "Felipe looks so bright!" she thought, as she noted his
-mobile changing face, never for two successive seconds the same. "There
-is nobody like Felipe." And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as
-they so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked steadily back
-into their velvet depths with an abstracted sort of intensity which
-profoundly puzzled Felipe. It was this look, more than any other one
-thing, which had for two years held Felipe's tongue in leash, as it
-were, and made it impossible for him to say to Ramona any of the loving
-things of which his heart had been full ever since he could remember.
-The boy had spoken them unhesitatingly, unconsciously; but the man found
-himself suddenly afraid. "What is it she thinks when she looks into my
-eyes so?" he wondered. If he had known that the thing she was usually
-thinking was simply, "How much handsomer brown eyes are than blue!
-I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!" he would have perceived,
-perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known it, that a
-girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at him as a
-lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only enough to
-perplex and deter him.
-
-As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate
-of the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking
-down at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an
-eager leap forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals
-of distress to her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty.
-Margarita was, of all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they
-were nearly of the same age, it had been Margarita who first had charge
-of Ramona; the nurse and her charge had played together, grown up
-together, become women together, and were now, although Margarita never
-presumed on the relation, or forgot to address Ramona as Senorita, more
-like friends than like mistress and maid.
-
-"Pardon me, Father," said Ramona. "I see that Margarita there is in
-trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be with
-you again in a few moments." And kissing his hand, she flew rather than
-ran across the field to the foot of the garden.
-
-Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and
-buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay
-at her feet.
-
-"What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?" cried Ramona, in the
-affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand
-from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled
-linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her
-hands.
-
-Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry
-of dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and
-she gasped out, "Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never be
-mended, and it will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. When I saw
-the Father coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die.
-The Senora will never forgive me."
-
-It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth
-which the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front
-of beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the
-threads and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the
-cloth which had always been on the altar, when mass was said, since
-Margarita's and Ramona's earliest recollections,--there it lay, torn,
-stained, as if it had been dragged through muddy brambles. In silence,
-aghast, Ramona opened it out and held it up. "How did it happen,
-Margarita?" she whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house.
-
-"Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!" sobbed the girl. "That is the
-worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it
-had happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but she
-never will. I would rather die than tell her;" and she shook from head
-to foot.
-
-"Stop crying, Margarita!" said Ramona, firmly, "and tell me all about
-it. It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it."
-
-"Oh, the saints bless you!" cried Margarita, looking up for the first
-time. "Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will mend
-that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!"
-
-Ramona laughed in spite of herself. "You'll serve me better by keeping
-on your feet," she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through
-her tears. They were both young.
-
-"Oh, but Senorita," Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her
-tears flowing afresh, "there is not time! It must be washed and ironed
-to-night, for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help at the
-supper. Anita and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, and Maria has gone
-away for a week. The Senora said if the Father came to-night I must help
-mother, and must wait on table. It cannot be done. I was just going
-to iron it now, and I found it--so--It was in the artichoke-patch, and
-Capitan, the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp pricks of the
-old last year's seeds."
-
-"In the artichoke-patch!" ejaculated Ramona. "How under heavens did it
-get there?"
-
-"Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would
-forgive me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to dry on
-the fence there; and if I had only washed it when she first told me, two
-days ago, all would have been well. But I forgot it till this afternoon,
-and there was no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how the sun
-lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a strong cloth over the fence,
-so that the wood should not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more
-than half an hour, just while I said a few words to Luigo, and there
-was no wind; and I believe the saints must have fetched it down to the
-ground to punish me for my disobedience."
-
-Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places,
-"It is not so bad as it looks," she said; "if it were not for the hurry,
-there would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the best I
-can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after the Father
-is gone, I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as good as new.
-I think I can mend it and wash it before dark," and she glanced at the
-sun. "Oh, yes, there are good three hours of daylight yet. I can do it.
-You put the irons on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon
-as it is partly dried. You will see it will not show that anything has
-happened to it."
-
-"Will the Senora know?" asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but
-still in mortal terror.
-
-Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. "You would not
-be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?" she said gravely.
-
-"O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?" pleaded
-the girl.
-
-"I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended," said Ramona;
-but she did not smile.
-
-"Ah, Senorita," said Margarita, deprecatingly, "you do not know what it
-is to have the Senora displeased with one."
-
-"Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self," retorted
-Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the linen rolled up
-under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no one on the way.
-The Senora had welcomed Father Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda
-steps, and had immediately closeted herself with him. She had much to
-say to him,--much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much
-which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in
-the country generally.
-
-Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything
-were ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the
-shearers arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming
-in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed
-his messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians
-the urgent need of their losing no time on the road.
-
-It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the
-messenger to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the
-Father's movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even
-she perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much
-longer, or, as Juan Canito said, "forever." The Father might have fallen
-ill; and if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they
-heard of it, so scanty were the means of communication between the
-remote places on his route of visitation. The messenger had therefore
-been sent to summon the Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned
-herself to the inevitable; piously praying, however, morning and night,
-and at odd moments in the day, that the Father might arrive before the
-Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-walk, leaning on
-the arm of her Felipe, on the afternoon of the very day which was the
-earliest possible day for the Indians to arrive, it was not strange that
-she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her long-loved friend
-and confessor, a triumphant exultation that the saints had heard her
-prayers.
-
-In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the
-house was a signal for unwonted activities there,--even the coming of
-Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup had force-meat
-balls in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to her the last extreme
-of indifference to good things of the flesh. "But if he will not eat,
-he can see," she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was
-enlisted in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder
-afforded, She grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the
-cabbages to go into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full
-of rice, because Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two.
-
-"Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always
-two onions?" she exclaimed. "It is the dish he most favors of all; and
-it is a pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good beef
-he should take now."
-
-The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the
-kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going
-back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each
-child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of
-the meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a
-glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers
-and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita,
-between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping
-in the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her
-army of infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught,
-however, but that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted
-candle in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis
-of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace
-might be made whole like new. Several times before the afternoon had
-waned she snatched a moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet
-and pray her foolish little prayer over again. We think we are quite
-sure that it is a foolish little prayer, when people pray to have torn
-lace made whole. But it would be hard to show the odds between asking
-that, and asking that it may rain, or that the sick may get well. As the
-grand old Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they pray to God,
-is, that two and two may not make four. All the same he is to be pitied
-who prays not. It was only the thought of that candle at Saint Francis's
-feet, which enabled Margarita to struggle through this anxious and
-unhappy afternoon and evening.
-
-At last supper was ready,--a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in
-the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls
-and red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the
-boiled rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans)
-so dear to all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed
-pears, or preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of
-various sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an
-aroma of tea such as had never been bought or sold in all California,
-the Senora's one extravagance and passion.
-
-"Where is Ramona?" asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she
-entered the dining-room, "Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are
-waiting for her."
-
-Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What
-would happen now! "O Saint Francis," she inwardly prayed, "help us this
-once!"
-
-"Stay," said Felipe. "Do not call Senorita Ramona." Then, turning to his
-mother, "Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to
-perform for to-morrow," he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother,
-adding, "we will not wait for her."
-
-Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a
-mechanical way, and began, "But--" Felipe, seeing that questions were to
-follow, interrupted her: "I have just spoken with her. It is impossible
-for her to come;" and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged
-him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied
-curiosity as best she could.
-
-Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude,
-which he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood;
-for Ramona had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing
-him under her window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: "Dear
-Felipe, do you think you can save me from having to come to supper? A
-dreadful accident has happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it
-and wash it, and there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call
-me; I shall be down at the brook, and they will not find me, and your
-mother will be displeased."
-
-This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far
-as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious
-than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was
-skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came
-streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona,
-darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the
-grass, had dipped the linen into the water.
-
-Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks
-scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair
-fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in
-her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see
-the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get
-them out without fraying the lace.
-
-Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her
-whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over
-the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously
-scanning it, then plunging it in again.
-
-The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was
-aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty.
-A sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black
-against the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the
-band of Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the
-sheep sheds and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not
-see. He had been standing for some minutes concealed behind a large
-willow-tree a few rods from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was
-Alessandro, son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking
-slowly along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a
-mirror held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the
-glittering water where Ramona knelt. In the same second he saw Ramona.
-
-He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed;
-walked abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his
-disappearance. Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter
-of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on
-the beautiful vision,--for so it seemed to him.
-
-As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke
-aloud; "Christ! What shall I do!"
-
-
-
-
-V
-
-THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora
-Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the
-south and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky,
-this eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on
-watch for it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray
-reached the window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing
-there with bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in
-all devout Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly
-abandoned. At the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family
-arose, and began singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the
-duty of each person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up
-in bed, and join in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would
-be singing, and the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like
-the music of the birds in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually
-invocations to the Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies
-were sweet and simple.
-
-On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father
-Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about
-since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by
-the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He
-recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were
-at the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the
-Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could
-see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern
-horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like
-amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not
-a sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without
-difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space.
-Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe
-that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace,
-and the earth was standing still,--a belief just as grand, just as
-thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun
-long before they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent
-astronomer, with the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end,
-could have had more delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than
-did this simple-minded, unlearned man.
-
-His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to
-the windows of the house, yet dark and still. "Which window is hers?
-Will she open it when the song begins?" he thought. "Is it on this side
-of the house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. Saw the saints
-ever so beautiful a creature!"
-
-At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to
-his feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south
-window, and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks
-streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,--
-
-     "O beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven."
-
-Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined
-in,--the Senora, from her room at the west end of the veranda, beyond
-the flowers; Felipe, from the adjoining room; Ramona, from hers, the
-next; and Margarita and other of the maids already astir in the wings of
-the house. As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries waked, and the
-finches and the linnets in the veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were
-laid on bundles of tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build
-their nests. The roof was alive with them,--scores and scores, nay
-hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the
-tuning of myriads of violins.
-
-     "Singers at dawn
-     From the heavens above
-     People all regions;
-     Gladly we too sing,"
-
-continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's
-voices joined in,--Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up
-from the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all.
-
-     "Come, O sinners,
-     Come, and we will sing
-     Tender hymns
-     To our refuge,"
-
-was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn.
-
-Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been
-the leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of
-its splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music.
-Some of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not
-only sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at
-any of the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments
-as at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and
-spared no pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who
-showed any special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the
-breaking up of the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band
-of his Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep
-up the old religious services. The music in the little chapel of the
-Temecula Indians was a surprise to all who heard it.
-
-Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and
-knew all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the
-
-     "Beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven,"
-
-was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse
-rising, he could not forbear striking in.
-
-At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in
-surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking
-in all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang
-no more.
-
-"What could it have been? Did I dream it?" thought Ramona, drew in her
-head, and began to sing again.
-
-With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They
-seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great
-wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had
-a good tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but
-this--this was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of
-it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain.
-When the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra
-would strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this
-morning; there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to
-be at work: windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all
-directions, ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun
-rose and let a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place.
-
-Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt
-thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy
-altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good
-as new.
-
-The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming
-towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief
-bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her
-face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the
-veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already
-entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from
-his vantage-post of observation at the willows.
-
-When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver
-urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding
-these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky
-canon, several miles away.
-
-As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly
-up the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing
-why, thought, "That must be the Indian who sang." As she turned to the
-right and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and
-knelt on the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she
-came out. As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle,
-place the ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in
-front of the altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a
-look as of secret intelligence.
-
-"Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife," thought Alessandro, and
-a strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; hardly knew what it
-meant. He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much about women. He
-was a distant, cold boy, his own people of the Temecula village said.
-It had come, they believed, of learning to read, which was always bad.
-Chief Pablo had not done his son any good by trying to make him like
-white men. If the Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission
-have gone on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers,
-as his father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand
-man at the Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid the
-wages; handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But that was
-"in the time of the king;" it was very different now. The Americans
-would not let an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle.
-A man need not read and write, to do that.
-
-Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching
-Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and
-far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides.
-Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: "Pablo, your
-people will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless you keep them
-together. Knit firm bonds between them; band them into pueblos; make
-them work; and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is your only
-chance."
-
-Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He
-had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in
-his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his
-little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever
-there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from
-house to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the
-peace. At one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian
-tribes farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would
-be a general Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men,
-women, and children driving their flocks and herds with them, to
-Los Angeles, and camped there for several days, that they might be
-identified with the whites in case hostilities became serious.
-
-But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every
-day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased,
-he saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his
-anxieties deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend
-of Father Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned
-to Mexico in disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was
-reported to be lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo,
-that he and his people should always live in the valley undisturbed,
-was all the title Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the
-promise was given, it was all that was necessary. The lines marking off
-the Indians' lands were surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No
-Mexican proprietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or village,
-thus placed on his lands.
-
-But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such
-pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held as of no
-value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent enough
-to see that if this were so, he and his people were ruined. All these
-perplexities and fears he confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the
-father and son spent together, walking back and forth in the village, or
-sitting in front of their little adobe house, discussing what could be
-done. There was always the same ending to the discussion,--a long sigh,
-and, "We must wait, we can do nothing."
-
-No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young
-men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old
-before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they
-knew nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was
-no drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the
-hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy
-work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro
-and his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why
-Alessandro had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this,
-and also the fact that even the little education he had received was
-sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously
-aware, between him and the maidens of the village. If a quick, warm
-fancy for any one of them ever stirred in his veins, he found himself
-soon, he knew not how, cured of it. For a dance, or a game, or a
-friendly chat, for the trips into the mountains after acorns, or to the
-marshes for grasses and reeds, he was their good comrade, and they were
-his; but never had the desire to take one of them for his wife, entered
-into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the future, for him, was filled
-full by thoughts which left no room for love's dreaming; one purpose and
-one fear filled it,--the purpose to be his father's worthy successor,
-for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the fear, that exile and ruin
-were in store for them all.
-
-It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in
-advance of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona
-kneeling at the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed
-to Alessandro that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The
-purposes and the fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague
-wonder, pain, joy, he knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that
-he was bewildered. If he had been what the world calls a civilized man,
-he would have known instantly and would have been capable of weighing,
-analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not
-a civilized man; he had to bring to bear on his present situation only
-simple, primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been
-a maiden of his own people or race, he would have drawn near to her as
-quickly as iron to the magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even
-think of her in such a way, she would have been, to his view, as far
-removed from him as was the morning star beneath whose radiance he had
-that morning watched, hoping for sight of her at her window. He did not,
-however, go so far as to thus think of her. Even that would have
-been impossible. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel door,
-mechanically repeating the prayers with the rest, waiting for her to
-reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was Senor Felipe's wife; all
-the same he wished to kneel there till she came out, that he might see
-her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, had narrowed now down
-to that,--just one more sight of her. Ever so civilized, he could hardly
-have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed to him endlessly long.
-Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in the closing of the
-final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear deep-toned voice
-pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great sea-wave, sweeping
-along.
-
-Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as
-much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees,
-she whispered to Felipe: "Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians
-it is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it."
-
-"Oh, that is Alessandro," replied Felipe, "old Pablo's son. He is a
-splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?"
-
-"I was not here," replied Ramona; "you forget."
-
-"Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten," said Felipe. "Well, he
-was here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though he was only
-twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They saved nearly all their
-money to carry home, and I never knew them do such a thing before.
-Father Salvierderra was here, which might have had something to do with
-it; but I think it was quite as much Alessandro. He plays the violin
-beautifully. I hope he has brought it along. He plays the old San Luis
-Rey music. His father was band-master there."
-
-Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. "Does your mother like it, to have
-him play?" she asked.
-
-Felipe nodded. "We'll have him up on the veranda tonight," he said.
-
-While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied,
-the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work.
-Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was
-sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: "What are you gaping at
-there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After
-waiting till near midsummer for this shearing, we'll make as quick work
-of it as we can. Have you got your best shearers here?"
-
-"Ay, that I have," answered Alessandro; "not a man of them but can shear
-his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in all San Diego
-County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either; you'll see
-scarce a scratch on their sides."
-
-"Humph." retorted Juan Can. "'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws
-blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and
-never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed
-for good shearers."
-
-Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans" did not escape
-Alessandro. "And we Indians also," he answered, good-naturedly,
-betraying no annoyance; "but as for these Americans, I saw one at work
-the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, and upon my
-faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing.
-The poor beasts limped off with the blood running."
-
-Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to
-this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority
-of Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with
-another "Humph!" he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the
-sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still
-further.
-
-At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The
-shearing shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,--a long, narrow
-structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and
-pillars; no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart
-as was safe, for the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks
-loosely laid from beam to beam. On three sides of this were the
-sheep-pens filled with sheep and lambs.
-
-A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be
-cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed
-only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians
-had already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had
-been built, but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their
-blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored
-wings of the windmill blew furiously round and round, pumping out into
-the tank below a stream of water so swift and strong, that as the men
-crowded around, wetting and sharpening their knives, they got well
-spattered, and had much merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into
-the spray.
-
-A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from
-the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the
-fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the
-foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. "We'll fill more
-than those before night, Senor Felipe," he said. He was in his element,
-Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for the somewhat
-monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held no better feast for
-his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied,
-stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn away to the mills.
-"Now, there is something substantial," he thought; "no chance of wool
-going amiss in market!"
-
-If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next
-six months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and
-spent the next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and
-redoubling his exertions with the sheep.
-
-On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like
-half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these,
-to the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and
-pack them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below.
-Luigo, with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with
-five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty
-shearers, running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into
-the shed, in a twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees,
-helpless, immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The
-sheep-shearing had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the
-bleating, baa-ing, opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears,
-flying of fleeces through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping
-them down in the bales; not a second's intermission, except the hour of
-rest at noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight thousand
-of the Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As
-soon as a sheep was shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his
-hand to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his five-cent piece,
-dropped it in his pocket, ran to the pen, dragged out another sheep, and
-in less than five minutes was back again with a second fleece. The shorn
-sheep, released, bounded off into another pen, where, light in the head
-no doubt from being three to five pounds lighter on their legs, they
-trotted round bewilderedly for a moment, then flung up their heels and
-capered for joy.
-
-It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet
-filled the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off
-the men's faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found
-out very soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength
-since the fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for
-the recollection of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and
-yielded his place to the old man. But he was resolved not to give up,
-and he worked on, though his face was purple and his head throbbing.
-After the bag of fleeces is half full, the packer stands in it, jumping
-with his full weight on the wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to
-compress them as much as possible. When Felipe began to do this, he
-found that he had indeed overrated his strength. As the first cloud of
-the sickening dust came up, enveloping his head, choking his breath,
-he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, "Juan, I am ill," sank
-helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan Canito's scream of
-dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw instantly what had
-happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the bag, Juan
-in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his side to lift him.
-One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until they were all
-standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one proposing one
-thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence of mind to run to
-the house for help. The Senora was away from home. She had gone with
-Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's journey off.
-But Ramona was there. Snatching all she could think of in way of
-restoratives, she came flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant
-of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticulating, suggesting,
-wringing their hands,--as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad matters
-worse.
-
-Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. "Where is
-he?" she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's
-arms, just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned, "Oh, how will he
-ever be lifted out!"
-
-"I will lift him, Senora," cried Alessandro, coming to the front, "I am
-very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down." And swinging
-himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and returned,
-bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the roof again,
-he knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them at the middle
-around his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold him
-firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was hurriedly doing this,
-and Ramona did not at first understand his plan. But when she saw
-the Indians move a little back from the edge of the roof, holding the
-blankets firm grasped, while Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow
-cross-beams from which the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She
-held her breath. Felipe was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier,
-and many inches taller. Still, could any man carry such a burden safely
-on that narrow beam! Ramona looked away, and shut her eyes, through
-the silence which followed. It was only a few moments; but it seemed an
-eternity before a glad murmur of voices told her that it was done, and
-looking up, she saw Felipe lying on the roof, unconscious, his face
-white, his eyes shut. At this sight, all the servants broke out afresh,
-weeping and wailing, "He is dead! He is dead!"
-
-Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too,
-believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora.
-
-"He is not dead," cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under
-Felipe's shirt. "He is not dead. It is only a faint."
-
-At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously
-at the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it
-were an easy indoor staircase. "If I could only get up there!" she said,
-looking from one to another. "I think I can;" and she put one foot on
-the lower round.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. "Senorita! Senorita!
-do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will break your
-neck. He is fast coming to his senses."
-
-Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of
-the scene, his heart heard the word, "Senorita." Ramona was not the
-wife of Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he had
-addressed her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. Coming to the
-front of the group he said, bending forward, "Senorita!" There must
-have been something in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word
-could not have done it. "Senorita," said Alessandro, "it will be nothing
-to bring Senor Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more
-than one of the lambs yonder. I will bring him down as soon as he is
-recovered. He is better here till then. He will very soon be himself
-again. It was only the heat." Seeing that the expression of anxious
-distress did not grow less on Ramona's face, he continued, in a tone
-still more earnest, "Will not the Senorita trust me to bring him safe
-down?"
-
-Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. "Yes," she said, "I will trust
-you. You are Alessandro, are you not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita," he answered, greatly surprised, "I am Alessandro."
-
-
-
-
-VI
-
-A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's
-sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against
-Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the
-way things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was
-being punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a
-standstill, to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora,
-looking at the other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude
-that, since all this ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father
-Salvierderra at her side to give her comfort and counsel.
-
-It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell
-in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when
-Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor
-Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground,
-and broke his right leg,--a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's
-bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able
-to do more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless
-leg. It was a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to
-it. He lost faith in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous
-beratings and reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora
-with terror, had she known that such blasphemies were being committed
-under her roof.
-
-"As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!" cried Juan;
-"only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that
-whole box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned
-to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit
-in the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What
-are they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll
-pray no more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us." From
-morning till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg
-ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and
-swore and grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita
-said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no
-pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute.
-For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends
-had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons
-for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up
-in the minds of all the servants towards him. His own reckless language,
-combined with Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground
-for believing that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the
-Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old
-man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he
-had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men and women,
-drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was
-going on; and when by degrees they dropped off, coming more and more
-seldom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether, it was the one
-drop that overflowed his cup of misery; and he turned his face to the
-wall, left off grumbling, and spoke only when he must.
-
-This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she
-thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the
-Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the
-needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the
-doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie
-still in bed and be thus tended. "Three months!" sighed Margarita. "If I
-be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!"
-
-The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought
-to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a
-fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and
-raving in delirium, always about the wool.
-
-"Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a
-round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!--Jesus, how this
-sun burns my head!"
-
-Several times he had called "Alessandro" so earnestly, that Father
-Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any
-chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say
-to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at
-him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however,
-"Alessandro! Alessandro!"
-
-"I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin," sobbed out
-Ramona. "He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said
-he would have him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us."
-
-"We might try it," said Father Salvierderra. "Have you your violin here,
-Alessandro?"
-
-"Alas, no, Father," replied Alessandro, "I did not bring it."
-
-"Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then," said Ramona.
-"He was speaking of your voice also."
-
-"Oh, try, try." said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. "Sing
-something low and soft."
-
-Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking
-for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses.
-
-At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An
-expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head
-to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three
-watching him looked at each other in astonishment.
-
-"It is a miracle," said Father Salvierderra. "He will sleep."
-
-"It was what he wanted!" whispered Ramona.
-
-The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a
-second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying
-to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower,
-till the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower,
-slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As
-they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
-
-"Oh, go on, go on!" the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with
-anxiety. "Do not stop!"
-
-Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the
-air in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt
-something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by
-reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's
-healthy outdoor experience to enable him to understand such a
-phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regularly;
-soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing stopped; Felipe did not stir.
-
-"Can I go?" whispered Alessandro.
-
-"No, no." replied the Senora, impatiently. "He may wake any minute."
-
-Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and
-remained standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on
-one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,--all
-praying; the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary
-beads slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall,
-at the head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side
-a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long
-wicks smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as
-the ends fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the
-Madonna. The Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears
-streaming down her face as she mechanically told her beads.
-
-"She is his betrothed, no doubt," thought Alessandro. "The saints will
-not let him die;" and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the
-scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he
-vaulted over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound,
-"I will not go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he
-awakes."
-
-Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly
-about him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then
-he threw himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into
-the sky. Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at
-full length by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the
-house that danger and anguish were there.
-
-One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room.
-Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora
-had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer.
-But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a
-sitting posture, with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead,
-and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and
-heavy circles under her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and
-nights she had scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her.
-Between Felipe's illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without
-something to be done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and
-above all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down
-with grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till
-she saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her inexperience
-thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But now, at
-the very thought of what it would be to live without him, her heart
-sickened. "When he is buried, I will ask Father Salvierderra to take
-me away. I never can live here alone," she said to herself, never for a
-moment perceiving that the word "alone" was a strange one to have come
-into her mind in the connection. The thought of the Senora did not enter
-into her imaginations of the future which so smote her with terror. In
-the Senora's presence, Ramona always felt herself alone.
-
-Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill,
-his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's
-eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more
-beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a
-lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines
-on her face in the last three days. "It will kill her if he dies,"
-he thought, "if these three days have made her look like that." And
-Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his face down. He did not
-know whether it were an hour or a day that he had lain there, when he
-heard Father Salvierderra's voice speaking his name. He sprang up, to
-see the old monk standing in the window, tears running down his cheeks.
-"God be praised," he said, "the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has
-broken out on his skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in
-his right mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we
-know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without you, and
-remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain in Juan Can's
-place till he is about. She will give you the same wages he had. Would
-it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? You cannot be sure of
-earning so much as that for the next three months, can you?"
-
-While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in
-Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which
-were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling
-in opposite directions; one saying "Stay!" and the other saying "Go!"
-He would not have known what any one meant, who had said to him, "It
-is danger to stay; it is safety to fly." All the same, he felt as if he
-could do neither.
-
-"There is another shearing yet, Father," he began, "at the Ortega's
-ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and
-they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not
-do to break the promise, Father."
-
-Father Salvierderra's face fell. "No, my son, certainly not," he said;
-"but could no one else take your place with the band?"
-
-Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out,
-whispered, "Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come
-and talk to him. He must not go." And running swiftly through the hall,
-across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side
-in a moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: "We can't let
-you go, Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your
-place with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place
-till he is well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing
-again, and what would we do then? Can't you stay?"
-
-"Yes, I can stay, Senorita," answered Alessandro, gravely. "I will stay
-so long as you need me."
-
-"Oh, thank you, Alessandro!" Ramona cried. "You are good, to stay. The
-Senora will see that it is no loss to you;" and she flew back to the
-house.
-
-"It is not for the wages, Senorita," Alessandro began; but Ramona
-was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of
-humiliation. "I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money
-kept me," he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. "I would not leave
-the band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father."
-
-"Yes, yes, son. I understand that," replied the monk, who had known
-Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San
-Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. "That is quite right of
-you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such
-things that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and
-only the two women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way
-North again."
-
-"Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?" asked Alessandro.
-
-"I think so," replied Father Salvierderra. "These relapses are always
-worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after
-he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I
-doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will
-be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up,
-too, just at this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most
-rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes impiously."
-
-"That does he!" said Alessandro. "He swears the saints gave him over to
-the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from
-this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things
-yet if he did not mend his speech of them."
-
-Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: "It is but a sign
-of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being
-corrupted. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a
-priest come often to the village?"
-
-"Only twice a year," replied Alessandro; "and sometimes for a funeral,
-if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the
-chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the
-people are often there praying."
-
-"Ay, ay! Ever for money!" groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the
-latter part of the sentence. "Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it
-were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once
-in three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order."
-
-"Oh, if you could, Father," exclaimed Alessandro, "it would make my
-father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees
-between the words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He
-is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the
-Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as
-if they were dogs; they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think
-that can be so, Father, when we have always lived on them, and the
-owners promised them to us forever?"
-
-Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and
-Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for
-words to convey his meaning. At last he said: "Got your father any
-notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,--notice to
-appear before a court, or anything about a title to the land?"
-
-"No, Father," replied Alessandro.
-
-"There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws," continued
-the monk; "some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians
-from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If
-you have had no such notice, you are not in danger."
-
-"But, Father," persisted Alessandro, "how could there be a law to take
-away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?"
-
-"Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?"
-
-"No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked
-off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries
-of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass and wood to
-measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry.
-I myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's
-house,--Senor Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He
-hired one of our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I
-wished to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose
-told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to
-me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked
-on the map, for it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and
-Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both pointed to it with their finger, and
-they said, 'All this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think
-my father need fear, do you?"
-
-"I hope not," replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; "but since the
-way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have
-small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all
-that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands."
-
-"That is what my father says," replied Alessandro. "He says, 'Look at
-San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all their vast
-lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church
-and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?'
-That is what my father says."
-
-"True, true!" said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room
-where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see Father
-Salvierderra's face coming in. "We are all alike helpless in their
-hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they
-please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'" and he crossed himself
-devoutly, repeating the words twice.
-
-Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full
-of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on
-towards the shearing-shed he thought: "Then, again, how can it be God's
-will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should
-steal from another all he has. That would make God no better than a
-thief, it looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?"
-
-It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula.
-Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had
-grappled with the problem in one shape or another.
-
-At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and
-ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning,
-and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,--it
-was now near sunset,--with nothing to do, and still worse with not
-much of anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The
-economical Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and
-supposing they would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep
-killed for them the day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old
-Marda, getting her cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the
-family needed themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry
-day of it, in no wise alleviated either by the reports brought from time
-to time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under
-Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to.
-
-It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement
-of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in
-few words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by
-setting them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place
-for the remainder of the season.
-
-"Very well!" they said hotly; "captain for this year, captain for next,
-too!" It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the
-shearers!
-
-"All right," said Alessandro; "please yourselves! It is all the same
-to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra
-wishes it."
-
-"Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different." "Ah, that alters
-the case!" "Alessandro is right!" came up in confused murmur from the
-appeased crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula
-men, and would never think of going against the Father's orders. But
-when they understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until
-Juan Canito's leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh
-grumblings began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro
-must be at home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,--no doing
-anything without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the
-midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as
-the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing
-except the Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had
-had a hundred engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten
-them all. Now that he was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be
-confessed he was for a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was
-a time, when, as he well knew, his father could not do without his help.
-There were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly
-whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and encourage all
-sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty
-lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That was certain.
-
-"I will manage to be at home then," he said. "If I am not through here
-by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend
-on."
-
-The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact,
-but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only
-old man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys.
-Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged,
-two years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was
-getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the
-first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling
-away all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his
-blanket at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for
-these few remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office
-again. And Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they
-ought all to see that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with
-the men.
-
-The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend
-of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the
-Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if
-they did not do all they could to help her in her need.
-
-The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught
-and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at
-full speed from the house.
-
-"Alessandro! Alessandro!" cried Ramona, out of breath, "I have only just
-now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you
-know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house.
-Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have
-a good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait."
-
-Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona
-spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial
-outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too
-ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega
-sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro
-hesitated.
-
-"It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's," he said to the men. "You'll
-be late in, if you do not start now."
-
-"Supper will be ready in an hour," said Ramona. "Please let them stay;
-one hour can't make any difference."
-
-Alessandro smiled. "It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are
-off," he said; "but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you,
-Senorita, for thinking of it."
-
-"Oh, I did not think of it myself," said Ramona. "It was Margarita,
-here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the
-shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed," she
-added ruefully. "It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything
-to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita," answered Alessandro, "but that is not long; one can do
-without food very well for one day. I often do."
-
-"Often." exclaimed Ramona; "but why should you do that?" Then suddenly
-bethinking herself, she said in her heart, "Oh, what a thoughtless
-question! Can it be they are so poor as that?" And to save Alessandro
-from replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, "Come, come,
-Margarita, we must go and help at the supper."
-
-"Will the Senorita let me help, too," asked Alessandro, wondering at his
-own boldness,--"if there is anything I can do?"
-
-"Oh, no," she cried, "there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help
-carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with
-Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some
-of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are
-ready."
-
-The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting,
-and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and
-the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons,
-frying, pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently
-old Marda meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in
-his bed, also heard and smelled what was going on. "May the fiends get
-me," he growled, "if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast
-for those beasts of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers
-stewing, and potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for
-beggars that are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or
-a bowl of acorn porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they
-were well feasted at the Moreno's,--that's one comfort. I wonder if
-Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but it
-smells well! Margarita! Margarita!" he called at top of his lungs; but
-Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the kitchen;
-and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the good broth which
-the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must eat for two weeks,
-she had dismissed him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Margarita
-was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in love with the
-handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the year
-before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to her,
-evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed,
-when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade,
-through which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor
-Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion,
-had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was going
-to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe
-got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about,
-here, there, and everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall
-straight figure pacing up and down in the dusk outside.
-
-Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off
-at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, "I will call you when we
-are ready." But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call.
-
-"Run, Margarita," she said. "All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in
-sight. Call him to come and take the things."
-
-So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called "Alessandro!
-Alessandro! the supper is ready."
-
-But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there
-holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so
-roused poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave
-it into Alessandro's hands, "Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The
-gravy will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting
-on table;" and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's
-eyes,--a little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to
-making him drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at
-her feet.
-
-The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than
-an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to
-set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. "Jose,"
-he said, "whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?"
-
-"Mine," promptly replied Jose. "Mine, by a great deal. I will run
-Antonio any day he likes."
-
-Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was
-learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little
-diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back.
-He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there
-was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of
-the fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for
-his messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his
-horse to its utmost speed.
-
-Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, "Will you go? I will pay
-you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing."
-
-"I will go," said Jose, elated. "You will see me back tomorrow by
-sundown."
-
-"Not earlier?" asked Alessandro. "I thought by noon."
-
-"Well, by noon be it, then," said Jose. "The horse can do it."
-
-"Have great care!" said Alessandro.
-
-"That will I," replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch
-with his knees, set off at full gallop westward.
-
-"I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula," said Alessandro, walking
-up to Fernando. "He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the
-Ortega's the next morning."
-
-"Back here by noon to-morrow!" exclaimed Fernando. "Not unless he kills
-his horse!"
-
-"That was what he said," replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
-
-"Easy enough, too!" cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare.
-"I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for
-her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?"
-
-"Is your horse really faster than Jose's?" said Alessandro. "Then I wish
-I had sent you. I'll send you next time."
-
-
-
-
-VII
-
-IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into
-his place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough
-places became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old
-Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the
-news of his staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for
-since his accident Juan had not been without fears that he might lose
-his place altogether; there was a Mexican he knew, who had long
-been scheming to get the situation, and had once openly boasted at
-a fandango, where he was dancing with Anita, that as soon as that
-superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was out of the way, he meant to
-be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself. To have seen this man in
-authority on the place, would have driven Juan out of his mind.
-
-But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,--and of course the Senora
-would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a
-position on the estate,--it was exactly as Juan would have wished; and
-he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in
-his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and
-explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro
-understood far better than he did.
-
-Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis
-Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly
-as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither
-did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position
-of his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was
-an Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of
-Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's
-mind to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan
-had been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully
-trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite
-usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he
-would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents
-were different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be
-entirely on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew,
-of which Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others
-in which Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the
-things of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher
-of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but
-circumstances and opportunity would have a hold on him they could never
-get on Alessandro. Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro
-was by nature full of veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had
-been trained into being a good Catholic. But they were both singularly
-pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled young men, and destined, by
-the strange chance which had thus brought them into familiar relations,
-to become strongly attached to each other. After the day on which
-the madness of Felipe's fever had been so miraculously soothed and
-controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was never again wildly delirious.
-When he waked in the night from that first long sleep, he was, as Father
-Salvierderra had predicted, in his right mind; knew every one, and asked
-rational questions. But the over-heated and excited brain did not
-for some time wholly resume normal action. At intervals he wandered,
-especially when just arousing from sleep; and, strangely enough, it
-was always for Alessandro that he called at these times, and it seemed
-always to be music that he craved. He recollected Alessandro's having
-sung to him that first night. "I was not so crazy as you all thought,"
-he said. "I knew a great many of the things I said, but I couldn't help
-saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; and when he
-began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down and put her hand
-on my head and cooled it."
-
-On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left,
-Alessandro, seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps,
-and said, "Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the
-violin to him tonight?"
-
-"Why, whose violin have you got?" exclaimed Ramona, astonished.
-
-"My own, Senorita."
-
-"Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it."
-
-"Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is
-here."
-
-"Sent to Temecula and back already!" cried Ramona.
-
-"Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a hundred
-miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and he is at the
-Ortega's by this time."
-
-Ramona's eyes glistened. "I wish I could have thanked him," she said.
-"You should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going."
-
-"I paid him, Senorita; he went for me," said Alessandro, with a shade of
-wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did
-not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more.
-
-"But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would
-rather pay the messenger herself."
-
-"It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear
-the violin, I will play;" and Alessandro walked slowly away.
-
-Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no
-thought of his being an Indian,--a thought there had surely been no need
-of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's;
-but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she
-forgotten it.
-
-"What a superb head, and what a walk!" she thought. Then, looking more
-observantly, she said: "He walks as if he were offended. He did not
-like my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted to do it for dear
-Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we will give him some present when he
-goes away."
-
-"Isn't he splendid, Senorita?" came in a light laughing tone from
-Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their
-relation. "Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he
-dances! Last year I danced with him every night; he has wings on his
-feet, for all he is so tall and big."
-
-There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was
-suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to
-Ramona. Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had
-never before in her life used. "It is not fitting to speak like that
-about young men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you," she
-said, and walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if
-she had got a box on the ear.
-
-She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's.
-She had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly
-bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds,
-reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the
-harsh speech from her mind. "Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita,"
-she thought, "to make her speak like that to me." But the incident was
-not so easily dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the
-day it recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from
-solution as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream of;
-but it was dropped in soil where it would grow some day,--forcing-house
-soil, and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an
-enemy.
-
-All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona
-proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by
-his side, as she had sat for days and nights,--her dark face looking
-thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that
-could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow.
-
-"Dear Senora," whispered Ramona, "do go out for a few moments while he
-sleeps, and let me watch,--just on the walk in front of the veranda. The
-sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if you do not
-have air."
-
-The Senora shook her head. "My place is here," she answered, speaking in
-a dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished
-neither to give it nor take it. "I shall not leave him. I do not need
-the air."
-
-Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now
-shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It
-was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near
-Felipe's head. "He will like to see it when he wakes," she said.
-
-The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. "Take it away!
-Flowers are poison when one is ill," she said coldly. "Have I never told
-you that?"
-
-"No, Senora," replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at
-the saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's
-pillow.
-
-"The musk is different," said the Senora, seeing the glance. "Musk is a
-medicine; it revives."
-
-Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated
-musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his
-mother was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and
-the house would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her
-faint, with a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have
-confessed as much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought
-it all a fancy.
-
-"Shall I stay?" asked Ramona, gently.
-
-"As you please," replied the Senora. The simple presence of Ramona irked
-her now with a feeling she did not pretend to analyze, and would
-have been terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to say
-to herself, in plain words: "Why is that girl well and strong, and my
-Felipe lying here like to die! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight
-of her. What is she, to be preserved of the saints!"
-
-But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona
-entered the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to
-Felipe. If it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but
-her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated
-her. "What does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!"
-thought the Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely
-forgetting how feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of
-love in the heart.
-
-If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one
-second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already
-occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died
-herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge
-was possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's
-mind. A revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her
-ears. So impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are
-forever held by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of
-our daily companions.
-
-At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had
-dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep.
-
-"Send for Alessandro," he said. "Let him come and sing to me."
-
-"He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,"
-said Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the
-messenger's having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a
-day, to bring it.
-
-"I wanted to pay the man," she said; "I knew of course your mother would
-wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me
-shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing."
-
-"You couldn't have offended him more," said Felipe. "What a pity! He is
-as proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has
-always been the head of their band; in fact, he has authority over
-several bands; General, they call it now, since they got the title from
-the Americans; they used to call it Chief., and until Father Peyri left
-San Luis Rey, Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general steward
-and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted him with everything; I've heard he
-would leave boxes full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off
-the Indians. Pablo reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as
-many sheep as we have, I fancy!"
-
-"What!" exclaimed Ramona, astonished. "They all look as if they were
-poor."
-
-"Oh, well, so they are," replied Felipe, "compared with us; but one
-reason is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds and
-supports half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he will
-never see one of his Indians hungry."
-
-"How generous!" warmly exclaimed Ramona; "I think they are better than
-we are, Felipe!"
-
-"I think so, too," said Felipe. "That's what I have always said. The
-Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they have
-learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when the Fathers
-first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. He has read
-all Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is
-wonderful how the wild savages gave food to every one who came."
-
-"Felipe, you are talking too much," said the Senora's voice, in the
-doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she
-had said in words, "See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No
-wonder I do not leave the room except when I must!" her meaning could
-not have been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some
-misgiving that it was deserved.
-
-"Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?" she said timidly; and to the Senora,
-"Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low."
-
-"Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?" said Felipe. "Tell him to bring
-his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays."
-
-A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few
-minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds,
-vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,--Ramona searched them all
-in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking
-down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by
-the washing-stones.
-
-"Can he be there?" she said. "What can he be doing there? Who is it with
-him?" And she walked down the path, calling, "Alessandro! Alessandro!"
-
-At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion,
-and almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face
-to face with Ramona.
-
-"Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my violin here.
-I thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him in the twilight."
-
-"Yes," replied Ramona, "he wishes to hear you. I have been looking
-everywhere for you." As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering
-beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the
-brook.
-
-Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. "It is
-Margarita," he said instantly. "Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run
-and call her?"
-
-"No," said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew
-she was displeased; "no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing
-there?"
-
-"She is washing," replied Alessandro, innocently.
-
-"Washing at this time of day!" thought Ramona, severely. "A mere
-pretext. I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort
-of thing." And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side,
-she meditated whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the
-subject in the morning.
-
-Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections
-not the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water,
-she said to herself, "I may as well finish them now I am here. How
-provoking! I've no more than got a word with him, than she must come,
-calling him away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow, at
-the first word. I'd like to know what's come over the man, to be so
-different. If I could ever get a good half-hour with him alone, I'd soon
-find out. Oh, but his eyes go through me, through and through me! I
-know he's an Indian, but what do I care for that. He's a million times
-handsomer than Senor Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he'd make
-enough better head shepherd than old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only
-see it; and why shouldn't he get to see it, if Alessandro's here
-all summer?" And before the aprons were done, Margarita had a fine
-air-castle up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice little house,
-children playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself
-still working for the Senora. "And the Senorita will perhaps marry Senor
-Felipe," she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. "He worships
-the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye can see
-that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is
-sure to have a wife, and so and so." It was an innocent, girlish castle,
-built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or
-low, need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would
-presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never
-dreamed of.
-
-The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business
-with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind
-that before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long
-talk with Alessandro. "He was fond enough of me last year, I know,"
-she said to herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night
-leave-takings at that time. "It's because he is so put upon by everybody
-now. What with Juan Can in one bed sending for him to prate to him about
-the sheep, and Senor Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to
-sleep, and all the care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his
-mind altogether. But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's
-sun sets. If I can once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after
-that; I know the way it is with men!" said the confident Margarita,
-who, truth being told, it must be admitted, did indeed know a great
-deal about the way it is with men, and could be safely backed, in a fair
-field, with a fair start, against any girl of her age and station in
-the country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day
-destined to be an eventful one in her life.
-
-Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some
-reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's
-having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening,
-but would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther
-signs of her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him.
-
-This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection
-for Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's
-displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also
-aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect
-ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. "And he is
-not really to blame," thought Ramona, "if a girl follows him about and
-makes free with him. She must have seen him at the willows, and gone
-down there on purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For
-she never in this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he must
-have known, if he were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it
-seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as full of grave thought
-as Father Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I
-shall speak to her myself, kindly but firmly, and tell her to conduct
-herself more discreetly."
-
-Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being
-concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and
-grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the
-phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth.
-
-"I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has," she said. "I wonder any girl
-should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me,
-feel a constraint. There is something in them like the eyes of a saint,
-so solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good."
-
-And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day
-a demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs,
-things could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did;
-for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at
-her embroidery in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro
-going with his pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at
-the east of the garden, and joining the almond orchard. "I wonder
-what he is going to do there," she thought. "He can't be going to cut
-willows;" and her eyes followed him till he disappeared among the trees.
-
-Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the
-east window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. "Now's
-my chance!" she said; and throwing a white reboso coquettishly over her
-head, she slipped around the corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the
-direction in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her steps reached
-Ramona, who, lifting her eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance.
-There was no possible duty, no possible message, which would take
-Margarita there. Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate
-indignation. But she bethought herself, "Ah, the Senora may have sent
-her to call Alessandro!" She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room,
-and looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed,
-with her eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and
-looked inquiringly at Ramona.
-
-"Do you know where Margarita is?" said Ramona.
-
-"In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda,"
-replied the Senora, in a whisper. "I told her to help Marda with the
-peppers this morning."
-
-Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on
-her course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father
-Salvierderra's room, looked in. The room was still in disorder.
-Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The color deepened on
-Ramona's cheeks. It was strange how accurately she divined each process
-of the incident. "She saw him from this window," said Ramona, "and has
-run after him. It is shameful. I will go and call her back, and let her
-see that I saw it all. It is high time that this was stopped."
-
-But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her
-chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her.
-
-"I will wait here till she comes back," she said, and took up her
-embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly by, she
-sat with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first Alessandro
-and then Margarita had disappeared. At last she could bear it no longer.
-It seemed to her already a very long time. It was not in reality very
-long,--a half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long enough for Margarita
-to have made great headway, as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro,
-and for things to have reached just the worst possible crisis at which
-they could have been surprised, when Ramona suddenly appeared at the
-orchard gate, saying in a stern tone, "Margarita, you are wanted in the
-house!" At a bad crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture
-which Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro,
-standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging
-listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand
-of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face, with a
-half-saucy, half-loving expression. What made bad matters worse, was,
-that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro snatched his hand from
-Margarita's, and tried to draw farther off from her, looking at her with
-an expression which, even in her anger, Ramona could not help seeing was
-one of disgust and repulsion. And if Ramona saw it, how much more did
-Margarita! Saw it, as only a woman repulsed in presence of another woman
-can see and feel. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye;
-the telling it takes double, treble the time of the happening. Before
-Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ramona and Margarita
-were disappearing from view under the garden trellis,--Ramona walking in
-advance, stately, silent, and Margarita following, sulky, abject in her
-gait, but with a raging whirlwind in her heart.
-
-It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the
-truth. Alessandro too.
-
-"My God." he said, "the Senorita thought me making love to that girl.
-May the fiends get her! The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How
-could she think a man would look at a woman after he had once seen her!
-And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! Oh, this cannot be
-borne!" And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling
-through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old
-olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place.
-How could he ever look the Senorita in the face again!
-
-"Perdition take that girl!" he said over and over in his helpless
-despair. An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not
-deserved it.
-
-In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen
-Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special
-harm, except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with
-him,--for she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone
-a little farther,--had not let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next
-second she had seen in his face a look; oh, she would never forget it,
-never! That she should live to have had any man look at her like that!
-At the first glimpse of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed
-rushing into his face, and he had snatched his hand away,--for it was
-Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,--had snatched
-his hand away, and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All
-this might have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's
-seeing them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal
-better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, appealing,
-worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes rested on Ramona, was
-like a flash of light into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than
-Alessandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her first rage she did
-not realize either the gulf between herself and Ramona, or that between
-Ramona and Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had
-all been equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was
-embodied insolence in the tone in which she said presently, "Did the
-Senorita want me?"
-
-Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said:
-"I saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I
-knew that you were at the brook last night with Alessandro. All I wanted
-of you was, to tell you that if I see anything more of this sort, I
-shall speak to the Senora."
-
-"There is no harm," muttered Margarita, sullenly. "I don't know what the
-Senorita means."
-
-"You know very well, Margarita," retorted Ramona. "You know that the
-Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do." And
-with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her
-embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good
-Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's
-would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words
-which were being spoken on the veranda a little later.
-
-After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate
-generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded
-himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the
-time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had
-just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner
-had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house,
-hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her
-time when not with Senor Felipe.
-
-When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in
-her embroidery. She did not wish to look at him.
-
-The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would
-not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not
-know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the
-consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and
-surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval
-of freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the
-passion of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the
-sun's rays. Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she
-sprang to her feet.
-
-"Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a
-long time to speak to her. I wished to say--"
-
-Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to
-say.
-
-As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But
-she spoke not, only looked at him searchingly.
-
-"Senorita," he began again, "I would never be unfaithful to my duty to
-the Senora, and to you."
-
-"I believe you, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It is not necessary to say
-more."
-
-At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not
-hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him.
-He felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and
-her.
-
-"It is well," he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people.
-"It is well." And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked
-away. Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father
-Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover
-to whom he was speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind
-a curtain, she saw the look with which he said them; saw also the
-expression on Ramona's face as she listened.
-
-Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an
-enemy.
-
-"Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!" said the girl,
-bitterly. "He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I haven't
-got to confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in that time."
-
-Much, indeed!
-
-
-
-
-VIII
-
-FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra
-had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with
-little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was
-almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every
-day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the
-only thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he
-would talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show
-for a few moments something like his old animation; but he was soon
-tired, and would close his eyes, saying: "I will speak with you again
-about this, Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing."
-
-The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon
-came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly
-liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's
-favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved
-in demeanor. She had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent,
-self-contained, mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed
-Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can,
-he did not know how matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he
-had, he would have been in a fever of apprehension, and would have got
-at swords' points with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all
-unaware of the real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the
-Mexican he dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear,
-asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise Alessandro to
-the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had not something to
-say in favor of the lad, as he called him.
-
-"Truly, Senora," he said again and again, "I do marvel where the lad
-got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep
-business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,--a deal more; and it
-is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of
-cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for
-a remedy of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I knew not that
-there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such."
-
-"No, I fancy not," the Senora would reply, absently. "His father is a
-man of intelligence, and has trained his son well."
-
-"There is nothing he is not ready to do," continued Alessandro's
-eulogist. "He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a
-carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief
-like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good
-lad,--a good lad."
-
-None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and
-more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan
-had feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his
-temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working
-in the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this
-young, strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ.
-The possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would
-hesitate about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno,
-did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would
-be plenty of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the
-young man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the
-idea, and propose it.
-
-So one day she said to Felipe: "What a voice that Alessandro has,
-Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?"
-
-"He's not going!" exclaimed Felipe, startled.
-
-"Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was
-about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I
-suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here
-ill, my son."
-
-"True, true!" said Felipe. "Is it really a month already?" and he
-sighed.
-
-"Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of
-his years," continued the Senora. "He says he is as skilled with cattle
-as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He
-seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had
-such behavior."
-
-"Old Pablo is just like him," said Felipe. "It was natural enough,
-living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with
-a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them."
-
-"I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you
-will be well and strong," said the Senora; "you would not miss him then,
-would you?"
-
-"Yes, I would, too!" said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to
-be childish. "I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as
-any man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on
-any ranch."
-
-"Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?" asked the Senora, in a
-surprised tone. "I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are
-all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not
-poor."
-
-"Oh, it isn't that," said Felipe, impatiently. "You can't understand,
-because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we
-are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They shear sheep for
-money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference.
-Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village
-obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith, much more
-so!" added Felipe, laughing. "You can't understand it, mother, but it's
-so. I am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to
-tempt him to stay here as my servant."
-
-The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. "No, I do not understand it,"
-she said. "Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that
-these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,--naked
-savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves
-too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and civilize them. The
-race was never meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers
-ever expected to make of them,--good, faithful Catholics, and contented
-laborers in the fields. Of course there are always exceptional
-instances, and I think, myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe,
-however, he is so exceptional, but that if you were to offer him, for
-instance, the same wages you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance
-of staying on the place."
-
-"Well, I shall think about it," said Felipe. "I'd like nothing better
-than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think
-about it."
-
-Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.
-
-Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing
-Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but
-listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with
-Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done
-this much,--that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she
-trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any
-more than when she thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican.
-Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she had admitted to
-herself, as Margarita had done before her, that Alessandro was far the
-handsomer man of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she
-could not help it.
-
-"I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro," she said to
-herself many a time. "I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder
-if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is."
-
-When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis
-money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips
-suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent.
-She had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations
-between her and her son.
-
-Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after
-his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the
-point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, "What was it,
-Ramona, you were going to say just now?"
-
-Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it.
-
-"Tell me, Ramona," persisted Felipe. "You were going to say something
-about Alessandro's staying; I know you were."
-
-Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself
-embarrassed before Felipe.
-
-"Don't you like Alessandro?" said Felipe.
-
-"Oh, yes!" replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. "It was not that at
-all. I like him very much;" But then she stopped.
-
-"Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his
-staying?"
-
-"Oh, no, no; not a word!" said Ramona. "Everybody understands that he is
-here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you
-could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay."
-
-"Well," said Felipe, inquiringly, "I do not. Do you?"
-
-"I think he would like to stay," said Ramona, hesitatingly. "That was
-what I was going to say."
-
-"What makes you think so?" asked Felipe.
-
-"I don't know," Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had
-said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like
-this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not characteristic
-of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion
-or jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went through Felipe's
-mind,--went through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if
-he had been, he would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian
-sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a
-trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and
-after this, it was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely
-than he had done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should
-seem by a shade altered in either, would watch still more closely.
-Meshes were closing around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and
-act,--Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love
-and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had,
-matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was
-clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, never
-long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers were not in
-focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of
-the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in
-so far as her means allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for
-the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal
-relation with her, a mother's affection, or even interest and
-acquaintance, no. The Senora had not that to give. And if she had it
-not, was she to blame? What could she do? Years ago Father Salvierderra
-had left off remonstrating with her on this point. "Is there more I
-should do for the child? Do you see aught lacking, aught amiss?" the
-Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus
-inquired of, could not point out a duty which had been neglected.
-
-"You do not love her, my daughter," he said.
-
-"No." Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. "No, I
-do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will."
-
-"That is true," the Father would say sadly; "but affection may be
-cultivated."
-
-"Yes, if it exists," was the Senora's constant answer. "But in this case
-it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and
-to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to
-her."
-
-It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, "Be cast into the sea,"
-as try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of
-itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona
-the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year,
-and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath
-than this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe,
-lonely in the Senora Moreno's house.
-
-Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that
-fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how
-should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at
-school with the nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house.
-Felipe was the only young man she had known,--Felipe, her brother since
-she was five years old.
-
-There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he
-needed them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went
-as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed
-to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have
-asked the Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now
-infrequent journeys to these places would have required more courage
-than Ramona possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent
-school, but she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the
-day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few
-romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most
-innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike than
-before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy temperament, had
-kept her singularly contented in her monotonous life. She had fed the
-birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the chapel in order, helped in
-light household work, embroidered, sung, and, as the Senora eight
-years before had bade her do, said her prayers and pleased Father
-Salvierderra.
-
-By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept
-strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,--he by living in
-the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled
-with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light
-and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child.
-
-As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro
-meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing
-or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him
-uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was
-never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling.
-
-"I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room,
-and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,"
-said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. "Do you think I should anger them
-if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put
-him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in
-a week."
-
-"And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the
-estate, and get it, lad," replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening
-in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, "Do not be so
-hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I
-was only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe
-on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not
-get up from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is
-but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case,
-I have never been able to find out."
-
-"Would it not be the Senorita?" asked Alessandro.
-
-Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. "Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say
-that!" he said. "Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more
-than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye,
-Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the
-Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of
-theirs."
-
-"Yes," said Alessandro; "Margarita has said to me that the Senorita
-Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno."
-
-"Foster-child!" repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, "there is something
-to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in
-Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any
-of their people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna
-that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale
-about her birth."
-
-If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have
-seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his
-words more carefully. But he went on: "It was after the Senora Ortegna
-was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and
-I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as
-if she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair
-and good a child as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a
-stain on the blood, lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know,
-her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big
-Saint Joseph there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking
-to Father Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one
-blood in her veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses with
-Indians.'"
-
-If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word "Indian" have
-bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than
-before, and said in a low voice, "How know you it was the mother that
-was the Indian?"
-
-Juan laughed again, maliciously: "Ha, it is the Ortegna face she has;
-and that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the whole coast.
-There was not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except for his
-wife's sake."
-
-"But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that
-the child was?" asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each
-moment now; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip,
-that he noticed nothing.
-
-"Ay, ay. So I said," he went on; "and so it was. There be such saints,
-you know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter
-to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to
-hold them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant
-and leaving it in the Senora's room; and she, poor lady, never having
-had a child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with
-her to the last; and I wager me, a hard time she had to get our Senora
-to take the child when she died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I
-think our Senora would as soon the child had been dead."
-
-"Has she not treated her kindly?" asked Alessandro, in a husky voice.
-
-Juan Can's pride resented this question. "Do you suppose the Senora
-Moreno would do an unkindness to one under her roof?" he asked loftily.
-"The Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself.
-It was so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard."
-
-"Does the Senorita know all this?" asked Alessandro.
-
-Juan Can crossed himself. "Saints save us, no!" he exclaimed. "I'll not
-forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing,
-when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she went to the
-Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had said her mother
-was no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora came to
-me, and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house;
-but if ever I hear of your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita
-Ramona, on this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you
-leave my service!'--And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it,
-Alessandro, now?" said the old man, anxiously. "My tongue runs away with
-me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,--an active man
-like me."
-
-"No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured," said Alessandro, walking
-away slowly.
-
-"Here! Here!" called Juan. "What about that plan you had for making a
-bed for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?"
-
-"Ah, I had forgotten," said Alessandro, returning. "Yes, that was it.
-There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says
-that it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the Mission
-days. I myself like the ground even better; but my father sleeps always
-on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of
-it to the Senora?"
-
-"Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself," said Juan. "It will be as he
-says. He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but
-yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to
-the wall, Alessandro."
-
-"Nay, Juan Canito," replied Alessandro, kindly. "It is not so. My father
-is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as
-firmly as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still."
-
-"What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?" thought
-Juan; but he answered, "It is not so with us. The old are not held in
-such reverence."
-
-"That is not well," replied Alessandro. "We have been taught
-differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many years
-older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of
-the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many years ago. He is long past
-a hundred years of age. He is blind and childish, and cannot walk; but
-he is cared for by every one. And we bring him in our arms to every
-council, and set him by my father's side. He talks very foolishly
-sometimes, but my father will not let him be interrupted. He says
-it brings bad luck to affront the aged. We will presently be aged
-ourselves."
-
-"Ay, ay!" said Juan, sadly. "We must all come to it. It is beginning to
-look not so far off to me!"
-
-Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious
-revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been
-at his. "Faith, old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!" he
-thought; but went on with the topic of the raw-hide bed. "I may not so
-soon get speech with Senor Felipe," he said. "It is usually when he is
-sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But it makes my heart heavy
-to see him thus languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and
-the sun, I do believe, indeed, Juan."
-
-"Ask the Senorita, then," said Juan. "She has his ear at all times."
-
-Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,--this
-suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He
-could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her.
-
-"I will speak to the Senora," he said; and as luck would have it, at
-that moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan
-Can's health.
-
-The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself
-had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them.
-"Yes," she said, "they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday
-that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; and when he
-was well, he thought nothing could be so good; he brought it here, at a
-great price, for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would
-throw me off as soon as I lay down; it is a cheating device, like all
-these innovations the Americans have brought into the country. But Senor
-Felipe till now thought it a luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is
-throwing him all the time."
-
-Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. "I once lay
-down on one myself, Senora," he said, "and that was what I said to my
-father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck.
-I thought perhaps the invention was of the saints, that men should not
-sleep too long."
-
-"There is a pile of raw-hides," said Juan, "well cured, but not too
-stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of
-those will be just right. It must not be too dry."
-
-"The fresher the better," said Alessandro, "so it have no dampness.
-Shall I make the bed, Senora?" he asked, "and will the Senora permit
-that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought
-I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor Felipe into the
-outer air. With us, it is thought death to be shut up in walls, as he
-has been so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we go into the dark
-like that."
-
-The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor
-of fresh air.
-
-"Night and day both?" she said. "Surely it is not well to sleep out in
-the night?"
-
-"That is the best of all, Senora," replied Alessandro, earnestly. "I beg
-the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly after the
-first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar."
-
-"No, only mistaken," said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly
-drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe.
-"When I die and leave Felipe here," she had more than once said to
-herself, "it would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this
-on the place."
-
-"Very well, Alessandro," she replied; "make the bed, and we will try it
-at once."
-
-This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west,
-when Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw
-Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed.
-
-"What can that be?" she said. "Some new invention of Alessandro's, but
-for what?"
-
-"A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita," said Alessandro, running lightly
-up the steps. "The Senora has given permission to place it here on the
-veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; and it will be
-a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room
-which is keeping him weak now; he has no illness."
-
-"I believe that is the truth, Alessandro," exclaimed Ramona; "I have
-been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but
-an hour, and when I come here I am well. But the nights too, Alessandro?
-Is it not harmful to sleep out in the night air?"
-
-"Why, Senorita?" asked Alessandro, simply.
-
-And Ramona had no answer, except, "I do not know; I have always heard
-so."
-
-"My people do not think so," replied Alessandro; "unless it is cold,
-we like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the
-night."
-
-"I should think it would be," cried Ramona. "I never thought of it. I
-should like to do it."
-
-Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in
-a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona
-would have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than
-the one she had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with
-Margarita. All day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain
-a confused procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words,
-they would have been found to be little more than ringing changes on
-this idea: "The Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The
-Senorita Ramona is alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian
-blood!" These, or something like them, would have been the words; but
-Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked away on the rough
-posts for Senor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the
-raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, striking every
-blow, with a bounding sense of exultant strength, as if there were
-suddenly all around him a new heaven and a new earth.
-
-Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, "It
-must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it," these vague
-confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant
-strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,--a vision
-of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up to
-them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, "There, Senorita!
-That is all firm, now. If Senor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed,
-he will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill."
-
-Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, "The bed is all ready on the
-veranda," she exclaimed. "Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?"
-
-Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression
-of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive
-nature far worse than anger. "I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the
-change, Ramona," she said. "I supposed that Alessandro would have
-informed me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly.
-Felipe is still very weak, you see."
-
-"What is it? What is it?" exclaimed Felipe, impatiently.
-
-As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to
-be moved.
-
-"That's just what I needed!" he exclaimed. "This cursed bed racks every
-bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty
-man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro," he went on, seeing
-Alessandro in the doorway. "Come here, and take me up in those long arms
-of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better."
-
-Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light
-burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than
-Alessandro to lift.
-
-Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets.
-As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her
-hands, saying, "I will arrange them myself;" and waved Ramona away.
-
-It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would
-have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were
-not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears
-at the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked
-swiftly away, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
-
-Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it.
-
-To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but
-too well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his
-weakness, was, "Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!"
-
-To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he
-stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up,
-half afraid.
-
-"Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?" he said smiling.
-
-"It is not your weight, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, off guard,
-still trembling, his eyes following Ramona.
-
-Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met.
-Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at
-Alessandro.
-
-"Ah!" he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head
-sink back into the pillow.
-
-"Is that comfortable? Is that right?" asked the Senora, who had seen
-nothing.
-
-"The first comfortable moment I have had, mother," said Felipe. "Stay,
-Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has
-shaken me up a good deal. Wait."
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda
-steps.
-
-"If you are to stay, Alessandro," said the Senora, "I will go and look
-after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about
-Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?"
-
-"Yes, Senora," said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had
-been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant.
-In fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind
-whether there could be any possibility of his getting away before the
-expiration of the time for which he had agreed to stay.
-
-It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he
-was asleep.
-
-At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some
-minutes. "Alessandro," he said.
-
-Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did
-not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had
-seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro
-was preparing for anything.
-
-"Alessandro," said Felipe, "my mother has been speaking to me about your
-remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this
-accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor soul! We are in
-great need of some man who understands sheep, and the care of the place
-generally."
-
-As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing
-expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood
-the surprise. "I knew you would be surprised," he said. "I told my
-mother that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only
-because we were in trouble."
-
-Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave
-him pleasure.
-
-"Yes, Senor," he said, "that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was
-not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can
-earn. Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether my father
-would think I ought to take the place you offer me, or not, Senor. It
-would be as he said. I will ask him."
-
-"Then you would be willing to take it?" asked Felipe.
-
-"Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it," replied Alessandro,
-looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's
-pause, "if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a
-pleasure to me to be of help to you."
-
-And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning
-over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service
-immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse
-of passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden
-consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro
-was not mistaken.
-
-
-
-
-IX
-
-WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep,
-Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his
-breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the
-same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to
-Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed.
-
-"You can go now, Alessandro," said the Senora. "I will sit here. You
-are quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all
-night?"
-
-"It will cure him before many nights," replied Alessandro, still without
-raising his eyes, and turning to go.
-
-"Stay," said the Senora. Alessandro paused. "It will not do for him to
-be alone here in the night, Alessandro."
-
-Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on
-the veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the
-Senorita's window.
-
-"No, Senora," he replied. "I will lie here by his side. That was what I
-had thought, if the Senora is willing."
-
-"Thank you, Alessandro," said the Senora, in a tone which would have
-surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes.
-She did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any one but
-Felipe. "Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you."
-
-"Oh, no." cried Alessandro; "if the Senora will excuse me, I could not
-lie on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I
-want. I could not lie on any bed."
-
-"To be sure," thought the Senora; "what was I thinking of! How the
-boy makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the
-ground, Alessandro," she said kindly.
-
-"No, Senora," he said, "it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep.
-I will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should
-wake and need something."
-
-"I will watch him myself till midnight," said the Senora. "I should feel
-easier to see how he sleeps at first."
-
-It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing
-were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and
-on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from
-her window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him
-spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take
-her place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were
-both going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit
-up and watch with Felipe.
-
-"I am not of any use to anybody," she thought sadly. She dared not
-go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At
-supper the Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant
-manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen
-Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who, in the former times,--ah,
-how far away those former times looked now!--had been a greater comfort
-to Ramona than she realized,--Margarita now was sulky and silent, never
-came into Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her
-sometimes with an expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to
-herself, "She hates me; She has always hated me since that morning."
-
-It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window
-leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up
-and down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in
-any wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved
-her. More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go.
-Her mind was not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in
-intercourse with men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro
-loved her, and distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she
-was, as she sat at her window this night, looking out into the moonlit
-garden; after she had gone to bed, she could still hear his slow,
-regular steps on the garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she
-fell asleep, was that she was glad Alessandro loved her.
-
-The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines,
-were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in
-her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low,
-regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to
-it for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to
-the window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought;
-but it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear;
-without a sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's
-window.
-
-"I am here, Senorita," he whispered. "Do you want anything?"
-
-"Has he slept all night like this?" she whispered back.
-
-"Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved."
-
-"How good!" said Ramona. "How good!"
-
-Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear
-him speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she
-could not, she gave a little sigh.
-
-Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. "May the saints bless
-you, Senorita," he whispered fervently.
-
-"Thank you, Alessandro," murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed,
-but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light
-filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open.
-
-"Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe," thought
-Ramona; and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words
-between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed
-again, and all was still.
-
-"I thought she would not have the heart to wake him," said Ramona to
-herself. "The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure;
-but I will say a prayer to her instead;" and she sank on her knees at
-the head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall
-of a spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the
-ear of that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose
-from the floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness
-was so far softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen.
-Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was
-sure he had heard her voice.
-
-"Did the Senorita speak?" he whispered, his face close at the curtain.
-Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the
-wooden floor.
-
-"No, no, Alessandro," she said, "I did not speak." And she trembled,
-she knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to
-Alessandro what had been the whispered words he heard.
-
-"She was at her prayers," he thought, ashamed and sorry. "Forgive me,"
-he whispered, "I thought you called;" and he stepped back to the outer
-edge of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie
-down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window.
-Through the transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly,
-steadily, till at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful
-of all else, she knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor,
-forgotten. Ramona would not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart
-was full of thanksgiving and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better
-prayer than any in the book.
-
-The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the
-veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The
-Senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but
-he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro
-only long enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's
-bed, holding her breath, he lay so still.
-
-"Ought he to sleep so long?" she whispered.
-
-"Till the noon, it may be," answered Alessandro; "and when he wakes, you
-will see by his eye that he is another man."
-
-It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed
-outright with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the
-steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him,
-"Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why couldn't that fool from
-Ventura have known as much? With all his learning, he had had me in the
-next world before many days, except for you. Now, Alessandro, breakfast!
-I'm hungry. I had forgotten what the thought of food was like to a
-hungry stomach. And plenty! plenty!" he called, as Alessandro ran toward
-the kitchen. "Bring all they have."
-
-When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright,
-his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self,
-she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then
-turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, "May Heaven reward you!" and
-disappeared abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes
-were red. All day she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed
-inconceivable. She even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona.
-She felt like one brought back from the dead.
-
-After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on
-the veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The
-servants came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk
-below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches
-Alessandro had made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way
-round the house, to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The
-Senora sat there, in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her
-black silk banded head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her
-large dark eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona
-lived there too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on
-the floor in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed,
-however,--if anybody had noticed, but nobody did,--so placed that she
-could look at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if
-the Senora were not in it.
-
-Here also came Alessandro many times a day,--sometimes sent for,
-sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or
-sang he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden.
-He also had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the
-positions he chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot
-which best commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own.
-Felipe knew it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell
-exploding at their feet would not have more astonished the different
-members of this circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would
-to have been made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in
-Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at
-them all.
-
-It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when
-the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and
-that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled
-with jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he
-was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die;
-it did not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and
-ever again be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of
-his own death, always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of
-her, if he were gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would
-be broken; that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe
-adored his mother; but he understood her feeling about Ramona.
-
-With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in
-long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to
-puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into
-his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him,
-had always loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a
-little at himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet,
-mournful tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going
-out of the world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new
-quality was coming into his love for her. He himself was returning
-to the brother love which he had had for her when they were children
-together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a man and
-Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this
-was finally clear and settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more
-misgiving and fear about his mother in the matter than he had ever
-admitted to himself; perhaps also the consciousness of Ramona's
-unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but all this was past now.
-Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What course should he pursue
-in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could he best help Ramona?
-What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought
-of any possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into
-Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's to
-think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in forecasting,
-plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his life he felt
-himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That any concern
-as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence her, he
-knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was concerned,
-Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar,
-and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted
-daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as
-foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit such a
-one to marry an Indian?
-
-Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more
-he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be
-decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for
-forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature
-indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by.
-It was exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him;
-his mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro
-was always at hand, ready for any service,--in the field, in the
-house,--his music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his
-personal presence always agreeable. "If only my mother could think
-it," reflected Felipe, "it would be the best thing, all round, to have
-Alessandro stay here as overseer of the place, and then they might be
-married. Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so."
-
-And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the
-valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes
-filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied
-vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but
-there were lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and
-geraniums in the pots, and musk,--oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was
-like an enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping
-relays of musk to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an
-enchanter's spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.'
-But the bees liked it, and the humming-birds,--the butterflies also;
-and the air was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the
-season's noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches
-and the canaries too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly
-feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their
-thickest; no need any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up
-that first morning to keep the sun off Felipe's head.
-
-What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot
-as this? "To-morrow," said Felipe, "I will speak to my mother," and
-"to-morrow," and "to-morrow;" but he did not.
-
-There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe
-knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about
-her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the
-watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge
-was going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be
-as it fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come
-she never doubted.
-
-When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening
-to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his
-ease and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger
-was almost beyond bounds.
-
-"Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!" she sneered. "It is new
-times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house,
-and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We shall see; we
-shall see what comes of all this!" And she knew not which she hated the
-more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona.
-
-Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken
-to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At
-first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her.
-As soon as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in
-the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. "A man should
-not be rude to any maiden," he thought; and he hated to remember how he
-had pushed Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away, when he
-had in the outset made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's
-resentment was not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how
-little Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them.
-"Let him go to his Senorita," she said bitterly, mocking the reverential
-tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the word. "She is fond
-enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to
-throw herself at his head before long, if this kind of thing keeps up.
-'It is not well to speak thus freely of young men, Margarita!' Ha,
-ha! Little I thought that day which way the wind set in my mistress's
-temper! I'll wager she reproves me no more, under this roof or any
-other! Curse her! What did she want of Alessandro, except to turn his
-head, and then bid him go his way!"
-
-To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of
-Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more
-or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any
-one of the shepherds,--this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry
-imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro.
-There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of
-such a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that
-idea would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to
-Margarita.
-
-Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not
-know. The girl was always like a sprite,--here, there, everywhere, in
-an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all
-sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved
-swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of
-any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and
-Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had
-not either seen or surmised.
-
-In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not
-strange that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved
-untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought
-himself, from his vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from
-his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most that happened,
-would have been astonished to hear all that Margarita could have
-told him. In the first days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him
-much,--had told him how Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and
-bathe and keep alive the green ferns with which she had decorated the
-chapel for Father Salvierderra's coming, had said: "Oh, Senorita, they
-are dead! Do not take trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;"
-and the next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of
-such ferns as she had never before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes,
-six and eight feet high; the feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and
-the silver, twice as large as she ever had found them. The chapel was
-beautiful, like a conservatory, after she had arranged them in vases and
-around the high candlesticks.
-
-It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all
-of the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the
-cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think
-it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made
-wreaths of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers
-which ever were made,--great soft round disks of fine straight threads
-like silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff
-points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the
-strangest thing in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay
-there on the ground. She had put a great wreath of them around Saint
-Joseph's head, and a bunch in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora
-saw them, she exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been
-made of silk and satin.
-
-And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian
-women at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare
-country; it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,--red and yellow,
-in alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a
-bright-colored bird.
-
-And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black,
-that came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got
-it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed
-that there was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's
-thoughtfulness and good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that
-Alessandro had said,--tales of the old Mission days that he had heard
-from his father; stories of saints, and of the early Fathers, who were
-more like saints than like men, Alessandro said,--Father Junipero, who
-founded the first Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's
-grandfather had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a
-miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. There was a
-cup out of which the Father always took his chocolate for breakfast,--a
-beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the only luxury the Father
-had; and one morning it was broken, and everybody was in terror and
-despair. "Never mind, never mind," said the Father; "I will make it
-whole;" and taking the two pieces in his hands, he held them tight
-together, and prayed over them, and they became one solid piece again,
-and it was used all through the journey, just as before.
-
-But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's
-sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief
-replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another
-thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to
-others she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she
-looked quickly up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance.
-Alessandro also observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He
-knew how differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when
-they were alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he
-was mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it.
-
-It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows
-by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened,
-it was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went
-often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not
-avowed, but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him
-there, at least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a
-pleasant spot,--cool and shady even at noon, and the running water
-always full of music. Ramona often knelt there of a morning, washing out
-a bit of lace or a handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went
-hard with him to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him
-vividly of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face
-in the sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that
-he even now thought her less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to
-be human! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time, and,
-lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water, and played
-with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like
-these: "Whither have gone the drops that passed beneath her hands, just
-here? These drops will never find those in the sea; but I love this
-water!"
-
-Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined
-sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it,
-thinking to herself: "He hopes his Senorita will come down to him there.
-A nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover, at the washing-stones!
-It will take swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ramona, to
-wash you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever she come upon you there
-with the head shepherd, making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that
-could only happen, I'd die content!" And the more Margarita watched,
-the more she thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was
-oftener at the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro
-met; and, as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked
-each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it
-had happened to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on
-the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be
-ordered to call the Senorita to supper.
-
-"If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did to
-me, 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul good! I'd
-say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! It will
-come! It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one of these
-fine times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!"
-
-
-
-
-X
-
-IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's
-most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It
-was the Senora herself.
-
-Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his
-chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little,
-the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of
-long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants,
-that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had
-not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose
-in walking over it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she
-could afford to sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they
-greatly desired to buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This
-bit of land lay farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it
-had taken more time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was
-already sunset on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned
-off from the highway into the same shortcut path in which Father
-Salvierderra had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now
-in getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry, and had
-been trampled by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was
-dusky twilight when she reached the willows; so dusky that she saw
-nothing--and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown path that she
-made no sound--until suddenly, face to face with a man and a woman
-standing locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back a pace,
-gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same second, recognized the faces of
-the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, each gazing into her face with
-terror.
-
-Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had
-stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice.
-
-"Senora," she began.
-
-"Silence! Shameful creature!" cried the Senora. "Do not dare to speak!
-Go to your room!"
-
-Ramona did not move.
-
-"As for you," the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, "you,"--she
-was about to say, "You are discharged from my service from this hour,"
-but recollecting herself in time, said,--"you will answer to Senor
-Felipe. Out of my sight!" And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in
-her life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. "Out
-of my sight!" she repeated.
-
-Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring
-look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no
-idea what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma.
-
-"Go, Alessandro," said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in
-the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had
-walked away.
-
-Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her
-own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A
-wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of
-her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, "Senora," the Senora did a
-shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.
-
-"Speak not to me!" she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she
-pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk.
-
-"Senora, you hurt my arm," said Ramona, still in the same calm voice.
-"You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid."
-
-Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and
-stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it
-an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would
-have thought it capable. "What does this mean?" thought the Senora,
-still weak, and trembling all over, from rage. "The hussy, the
-hypocrite!" and she seized the arm again.
-
-This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like
-a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and
-locked on the outside.
-
-All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona
-and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with
-impatience at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had
-gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry,
-and if he and the Senorita would not have their supper.
-
-"No, no, not till the Senora returns," Felipe had answered. He, too,
-happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew
-also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he
-did not know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of
-the willows at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to
-summon Ramona.
-
-When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling
-Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's
-pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch.
-Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona
-had helped her in times gone by,--sheltered her from the Senora's
-displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. "Holy Virgin! what
-will be done to her now?" she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita
-had never conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp
-reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro,--this was
-all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora
-looked as if she might kill her.
-
-"She always did hate her, in her heart," reflected Margarita; "she
-shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that.
-But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought
-her to such a pass as this;" and Margarita's jealousy again got the
-better of her sympathy. "Good enough for her. No more than she deserved.
-An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any
-girl!" Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again.
-
-It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's
-view and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from
-above, and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they
-were both equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a
-disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of
-conjecturing or of believing the truth.
-
-As ill luck would have it,--or was it good luck?--Felipe also had
-witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked
-out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had
-seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,--Ramona pale, but
-strangely placid; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The
-sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand,
-he groaned out: "Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come
-on them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!" And Felipe
-threw himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he
-heard his mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained
-silent, sure she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and,
-seeing him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, "Felipe, dear,
-are you ill?" he replied in a feeble voice, "No, mother, only tired a
-little to-night;" and as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw
-his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. "Mother mia!" he said
-passionately, "what should I do without you?" The caress, the loving
-words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. They restored the Senora
-as nothing else could. What mattered anything, so long as she had her
-adoring and adorable son! And she would not speak to him, now that he
-was so tired, of this disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It
-could wait till morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and
-he would not miss Ramona, perhaps.
-
-"I will send your supper here, Felipe," she said; "you must not
-overdo; you have been walking too much. Lie still." And kissing him
-affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly
-trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve
-supper. When the Senora entered, with her countenance composed, and in
-her ordinary tones said, "Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper
-into his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,"
-Margarita was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream.
-Had she, or had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora,
-shaking and speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her
-room, and lock her up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still
-and gazed at the Senora, with her mouth wide open.
-
-"What are you staring at, girl?" asked the Senora, so sharply that
-Margarita jumped.
-
-"Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to
-supper? Shall I call her?" she said.
-
-The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora
-Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no
-matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should
-treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was wrong.
-
-"The Senorita is not well," she said coldly. "She is in her room. I
-myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb
-her." And the Senora returned to Felipe.
-
-Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had
-spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those
-two short hours how much had happened!
-
-"Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon," said the
-bitter Margarita, "and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how
-he will carry himself."
-
-But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen.
-The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock,
-and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the
-places where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro
-was not to be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he
-thought he was discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but
-luckily held his peace, and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the
-geranium clump at the chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees
-drawn up to his chin, watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay
-there all night. He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him,
-she would either open her window and call, or would come out and go down
-through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would see her
-from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad
-with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved
-him. She had told him so. She had said she would go away with him and
-be his wife. The words had but just passed her lips, at that dreadful
-moment when the Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived the scene
-over again, he re-experienced the joy and the terror equally.
-
-What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look
-at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the
-Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing
-for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's
-mind, that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as
-she did, in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona?
-Could she live in a house such as he must live in,--live as the Temecula
-women lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some
-town, must do--he knew not what--something to earn more money. Anguish
-seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The
-more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and
-his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his,
-to look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone
-on loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,--now, in
-a moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had
-spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had
-put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed
-her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had
-been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden kisses a
-man unless she will wed with him,--him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the
-man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering,
-afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, in the very instant of
-their first kiss,--wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who
-had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a
-Moreno!
-
-Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his
-friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's
-instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora?
-Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of them?
-
-As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the
-whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's
-love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act
-of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which
-she had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the
-time of Felipe's fall, "You are Alessandro, are you not?" He heard again
-her soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda.
-He recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner;
-the evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without
-food. "O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?"
-he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her
-forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago,
-when he first told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She
-had said, "I know you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it," and had
-lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry;
-and when he threw his arms around her, she had of her own accord come
-closer, and laid one hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his.
-Ah, what else mattered! There was the whole world; if she loved him like
-this, nothing could make them wretched; his love would be enough for
-her,--and for him hers was an empire.
-
-It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have
-believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken
-between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first
-moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first
-caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at
-the instant, than there is of the instant of the opening of a flower.
-Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had
-held with him in regard to remaining on the place, and asked her if she
-knew of the plan.
-
-"Yes," she said; "I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some
-days ago."
-
-"Was she against my staying?" asked Alessandro, quickly.
-
-"I think not," said Ramona, "but I am not sure. It is not easy to be
-sure what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed
-it."
-
-This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the
-Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind.
-
-"I do not understand, Senorita," he said. "What do you mean by
-'afterward'?"
-
-"I mean," replied Ramona, "that the Senora never says she wishes
-anything; she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to
-Father Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes to
-have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you think
-so?"
-
-"She loves Senor Felipe very much," was Alessandro's evasive reply.
-
-"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ramona. "You do not begin to know how much. She
-does not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any
-left. If he had died, she would have died too. That is the reason she
-likes you so much; she thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that
-is one reason," added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at
-Alessandro, who smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that
-the Senorita was pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the
-Senora's regard.
-
-"I do not think she likes me," he said. "I cannot tell why; but I do
-not think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I ever
-saw, Senorita."
-
-"No," replied Ramona, thoughtfully. "She is not. I am, oh, so afraid of
-her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little girl. I
-used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care one way or
-the other, if I keep out of her way."
-
-While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running
-water at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in
-Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would
-have drawn near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did
-not look up. She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for
-Alessandro.
-
-"Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and
-looked at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself
-in, and be carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin,
-Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the next
-morning, when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been glad
-enough I had not done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro?"
-
-"No, Senorita, never," replied Alessandro; "and it is thought a great
-disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it.
-But, oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will
-you always be so? Must you always stay here?"
-
-"Oh, but I am not always unhappy!" said Ramona, with her sunny little
-laugh. "Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that
-if one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that it is a sin not
-to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work
-there is to do; and there is always plenty of that." Then, her face
-clouding, she continued: "I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no
-other home; you know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died
-when I was little, and the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra
-says I must never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for
-me, and I try not to."
-
-Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to
-him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to
-cry out, "O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They
-despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins; come to me; come to
-me! be surrounded with love!" But he dared not. How could he dare?
-
-Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night.
-She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or
-burdens; but she went on: "The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will
-not tell me who my mother was; and I do not know if she is alive or not,
-or anything about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade me ever
-to ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper
-for me to know. But she never has."
-
-How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never
-seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were
-to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to
-him, or repel her?
-
-"Have you never asked her again?" he said.
-
-Ramona looked up astonished. "No one ever disobeyed the Senora," she
-said quickly.
-
-"I would!" exclaimed Alessandro.
-
-"You may think so," said Ramona, "but you couldn't. When you tried, you
-would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once."
-
-"What did he say?" asked Alessandro, breathless.
-
-"The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the
-time came, I would be told," answered Ramona, sadly. "I don't see what
-they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?"
-
-"I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita," replied
-Alessandro. "Many things that your people do, and still more that these
-Americans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what they mean.
-Perhaps they do not know who was your mother?"
-
-"I am sure they do," answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words
-were wrung from her. "But let us talk about something else, Alessandro;
-not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your
-staying here."
-
-"Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?" said
-Alessandro.
-
-"You know it would," answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her
-voice, which Alessandro felt. "I do not see what we could any of us do
-without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go."
-
-Alessandro's face glowed. "It must be as my father says, Senorita," he
-said. "A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a
-letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to me, and asking
-him what I should do. My father is very old, Senorita, and I do not see
-how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years
-ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very
-lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope
-he will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to
-do for the village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more
-than get what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see
-them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all
-around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big
-fence built around our land, so as to show where it is; but the people
-cannot take much time to work on the fence; they need all their time to
-work for themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live
-now, Senorita. Were you ever in Temecula?"
-
-"No," said Ramona. "Is it a large town?"
-
-Alessandro sighed. "Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a little
-village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those are built
-only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall
-around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do, before
-we built the fence round the village."
-
-"How many people are there in the village?" asked Ramona.
-
-"Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them are away
-most of the time. They must go where they can get work; they are
-hired by the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or to go as
-shepherds; and some of them take their wives and children with them. I
-do not believe the Senorita has ever seen any very poor people."
-
-"Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor
-people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week."
-
-"Indians?" said Alessandro.
-
-Ramona colored. "Yes," she said, "some of them were, but not like your
-men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could
-not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition."
-
-"That is the trouble," said Alessandro, "with so many of them; it is
-with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father
-gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives
-them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it.
-There is only one other man in our village who can read and write,
-besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time
-begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But they say they
-have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see
-everybody has troubles, Senorita."
-
-Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her.
-Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and
-personal matters.
-
-"Ah, but these are real troubles," she said. "I do not think mine were
-real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people,
-Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could
-I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to
-teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I
-wish I could teach your people. Have you any relatives there
-besides your father? Is there any one in the village that you--love,
-Alessandro?"
-
-Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe
-the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question.
-
-"Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters,
-all of my father's people," he said; "and I am unhappy about them all
-the time."
-
-During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of
-thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said
-about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held
-to Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared
-his father would not let him remain away from home for any length of
-time. At the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking
-a sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, "Alessandro, I am afraid
-your father will not give his consent to your staying here."
-
-"So am I, Senorita," he replied sadly.
-
-"And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course," she
-said.
-
-"How could I, Senorita?"
-
-"No," she said, "it would not be right;" but as she said these words,
-the tears filled her eyes.
-
-Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. "Senorita!
-Senorita Ramona!" he cried, "tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita,
-then you will not be angry if I say that I love you!" and Alessandro
-trembled with the terror and delight of having said the words.
-
-Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the
-words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,--"I know
-that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!" Yes, this was
-what the Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, "But you,
-Senorita, you do not--you could not--" "Yes, Alessandro, I do--I love
-you!" in the same clear, firm whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's
-arms were around Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than
-saying, "O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you
-are mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!" But he was
-kissing her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, "Yes,
-Alessandro, I do mean it; I will go with you," clung to him with her
-hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, "I will go with you, I love
-you." And then, just then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry
-of amazement, and there she stood, no more than an arm's-length away,
-looking at them with her indignant, terrible eyes.
-
-What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he
-crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions
-did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened
-for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness
-deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in
-the Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room,
-soon put out,--evidently no supper going on there. Only from under
-Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and creeping close to the
-veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking,--the Senora's and
-Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her
-window; it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound.
-Where was she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution
-and infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going
-to her window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own
-responsibility. He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his
-love made a sign. Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his
-veranda bed, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was near
-midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother
-came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his
-mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him good-night, and went into her
-own room.
-
-It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the
-veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful.
-But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised
-when, a few minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice
-through the vines, "Senor Felipe?"
-
-"Hush, Alessandro," whispered Felipe. "Do not make a sound. To-morrow
-morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not
-safe to talk here."
-
-"Where is the Senorita?" Alessandro breathed rather than said.
-
-"In her room," answered Felipe.
-
-"Well?" said Alessandro.
-
-"Yes," said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro
-had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not
-all; one other thing comforted him,--the notes of two wood-doves, that
-at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the
-call and the answer, "Love?" "Here." "Love?" "Here,"--and long intervals
-of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing they
-told.
-
-"That is what my Ramona is like," thought he, "the gentle wood-dove. If
-she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove."
-
-
-
-
-XI
-
-WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After
-closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about
-Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the
-evening with Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind.
-But Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his
-night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover,
-she was not clear in her own mind what she wished to have done about
-Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent away to the nuns, which was the
-only thing the Senora could think of as yet, there would be no reason
-for discharging Alessandro. And with him the Senora was by no means
-ready to part, though in her first anger she had been ready to dismiss
-him on the spot. As she pursued her reflections, the whole situation
-cleared itself in her mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the
-plottings and plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula
-no allowance for a human element which he cannot control.
-
-Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a
-servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands
-of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect
-her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her
-sister's written instructions had provided for the possibility of just
-such a contingency. Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a
-life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box,
-battered and rusty with age, and set it on the bed. The key turned with
-difficulty in the lock. It was many years since the Senora had opened
-this box. No one but herself knew of its existence. There had been many
-times in the history of the Moreno house when the price of the contents
-of that box would have averted loss and misfortune; but the Senora no
-more thought of touching the treasure than if it had been guarded by
-angels with fiery swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in
-the dim light of the one candle,--rubies, emeralds, pearls, and yellow
-diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. "Fine dowry,
-truly, for a creature like this!" she said. "Well I knew in the
-beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, base born, she has
-but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be grateful
-that my own son was too pure to be her prey!" "To be given to my adopted
-daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,"--so the instructions
-ran,--"if she weds worthily and with your approval. Should such a
-misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she should prove
-unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of value, shall
-be the property of the Church."
-
-"No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves
-unworthy," thought the Senora, bitterly; "but the Church is the place
-for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of
-disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had at first intended to
-give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it
-with its Indian mother!" and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The
-paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked,
-her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up,
-read it again, with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of
-her sister's love for the little child; no relenting. "Unworthy!" Yes,
-that was a mild word to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled;
-and when the girl was once out of the house, the Senora would breathe
-easier. She and Felipe would lead their lives together, and Felipe would
-wed some day. Was there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to
-wed? But he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices,
-and Ramona would be forgotten.
-
-The Senora did not know how late it was. "I will tell her to-night," she
-said. "I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!"
-
-It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which
-made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her
-to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them
-to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she
-opened the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle
-high up; no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the
-window. It was open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. "She
-has run off with Alessandro," she thought, "What horrible disgrace."
-Standing motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other
-side of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had
-melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward
-Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet
-of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left hand was under
-her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the base of the statue. She
-was sound asleep. Her face was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was
-full of significance. Even helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken
-refuge in sanctuary. This thought had been distinct in the girl's mind
-when she found herself, spite of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy.
-"She won't dare to hurt me at the Virgin's feet," she had said; "and
-the window is open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will
-watch." And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep.
-
-It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from
-being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments
-looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful
-suspicions, she noted what she had never before thought of, that
-Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe, had had close access
-to Ramona's window. "Shameful creature!" she repeated to herself. "And
-she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!" and
-she turned away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a
-table. Then, with a sudden and still more curious mingling of justness
-in her wrath, she returned, and lifting the coverlet from the bed,
-spread it over Ramona, covering her carefully from head to foot. Then
-she went out and again locked the door.
-
-Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. "Thank
-God, the poor child is asleep!" he said; "and my poor dear mother feared
-to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!"
-And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy
-sleep, when his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of
-the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready;
-and no sooner did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her
-voice, than he struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour,
-prowling, listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her
-jealousy and her fears,--even Margarita delayed not to unite; and
-Felipe, too, sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded
-and melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of
-being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of
-them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro
-most of all.
-
-"The saints be praised," said Alessandro. "There is my wood-dove's
-voice. She can sing!" And, "Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I
-am glad he loves me," said Ramona.
-
-"To hear those two voices." said the Senora; "would one suppose they
-could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think."
-
-As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where
-Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to
-Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.
-
-Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread
-and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's
-own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the
-previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out;
-and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be
-known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants
-to gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very
-hungry. Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down
-to wait. For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much
-try. Ramona had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule.
-She felt little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going
-away presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom
-lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born
-emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door,
-and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the
-room. This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it
-had done before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed
-to her like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the
-whole tone and manner of her address.
-
-Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room,
-she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, "What have you to say for
-yourself?"
-
-Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the
-same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to
-stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted.
-
-"Senora," she said slowly, "I tried to tell you last night, but you
-would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so
-angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were
-not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go
-away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure
-you will be a great deal happier when I am away;" and Ramona looked
-wistfully, with no shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken
-face. "You have been very good to do so much for a girl you did not
-love. Thank you for the bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away
-with Alessandro to-day. I do not know what he will wish. We had only
-just that minute spoken of being married, when you found us last night."
-
-The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say
-these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the
-first sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed,
-followed a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much
-scorn, but a bitterer anger. "Marry! Marry that Indian!" she cried, as
-soon as she found voice. "You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I
-will never permit it."
-
-Ramona looked anxiously at her. "I have never disobeyed you, Senora,"
-she said, "but this is different from all other things; you are not my
-mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro."
-
-The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.
-
-"No," she said icily, "I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's
-place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to
-me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to
-speak again of marrying this Indian."
-
-The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise
-and cost, of what stuff this girl was made,--this girl, who had
-for fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and
-uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking
-swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself
-startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona
-said, in a louder, firmer voice: "Senora Moreno, you may forbid me
-as much as you please. The whole world cannot keep me from marrying
-Alessandro. I love him. I have promised, and I shall keep my word." And
-with her young lithe arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown
-back, Ramona flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud defiance.
-It was the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself
-buoyed up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from her
-like a garment thrown off.
-
-"Pshaw!" said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her
-wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, "you talk like
-a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow,
-if I choose?"
-
-"No, you cannot!" replied Ramona.
-
-"Who, then, is to hinder me." said the Senora, insolently.
-
-"Alessandro!" answered Ramona, proudly.
-
-"Alessandro!" the Senora sneered. "Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on
-whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!"
-
-The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. "You would never
-dare!" she cried; "Felipe would not permit it!" A most unwise retort for
-Ramona.
-
-"Felipe!" cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. "How dare you pronounce
-his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to
-you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the
-truth."
-
-"You are mistaken, Senora," answered Ramona, more gently. "Felipe is
-Alessandro's friend, and--mine," she added, after a second's pause.
-
-"So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of
-Moreno!" cried the Senora. "We will see! we will see! Follow me,
-Senorita Ramona!" And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out,
-looking back over her shoulder.
-
-"Follow me!" she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona hesitated; and
-Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into
-the veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's room,--the
-Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual
-gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes
-bent on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita,
-standing just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance.
-
-"She would help the Senora against me in anything," thought Ramona; and
-she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had
-not stirred.
-
-The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the
-curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every
-movement.
-
-"Sit down in that chair," said the Senora, pointing to one near the
-fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona.
-
-"I would rather stand, Senora," she said.
-
-"Do as I bid you." said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona obeyed.
-It was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, her senses
-seemed leaving her. She leaned her head against the back and closed
-her eyes. The room swam. She was roused by the Senora's strong
-smelling-salts held for her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the
-Senora's iciest voice: "The Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she
-did a few moments back!"
-
-Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her,
-in this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror
-had got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her
-face, took hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half
-around, brought into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the
-keyhole, which she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had
-read of persons who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and
-starved to death. With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all
-unaware of her terror, was prolonging it and intensifying it by her
-every act. First she took out the small iron box, and set it on a table.
-Then, kneeling, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a large
-leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and scraping along the
-floor, till it stood in front of Ramona. All this time she spoke no
-word, and the cruel expression of her countenance deepened each moment.
-The fiends had possession of the Senora Moreno this morning, and no
-mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might have indeed been fearful, at
-being locked up alone with a woman who looked like that.
-
-Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place.
-Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into
-the wall closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old
-battered boxes. What could it all mean?
-
-"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and
-seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, "I will now
-explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro."
-
-At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,--not her old self,
-her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his name,
-even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away.
-She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was
-young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap
-through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro.
-
-"I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno," she said, in a
-tone as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own.
-
-The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, "Do not interrupt
-me again. I have much to tell you;" and opening the box, she lifted out
-and placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written
-paper lay at the bottom of the box.
-
-"Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?" she asked, holding it up.
-Ramona bowed her head. "This was written by my sister, the Senora
-Ortegna, who adopted you and gave you her name. These were her final
-instructions to me, in regard to the disposition to be made of the
-property she left to you."
-
-Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while
-the Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder,
-fear of her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth,
-swept over her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she
-listened. She forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her
-eyes never left the Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the
-Senora said sternly, "You see, now, that my sister left to me the entire
-disposition of everything belonging to you."
-
-"But it hasn't said who was my mother," cried Ramona. "Is that all there
-is in the paper?"
-
-The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing
-that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her
-forever?
-
-"Who was your mother?" she exclaimed, scornfully, "There was no need to
-write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!"
-
-At the word "Indian," Ramona gave a low cry.
-
-The Senora misunderstood it. "Ay," she said, "a low, common Indian. I
-told my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in your veins would
-show some day; and now it has come true."
-
-Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. "Yes, Senora Moreno,"
-she said, springing to her feet; "the Indian blood in my veins shows
-to-day. I understand many things I never understood before. Was it
-because I was an Indian that you have always hated me?"
-
-"You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you," interrupted the
-Senora.
-
-Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. "And if
-I am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am
-glad I am an Indian! I am of his people. He will be glad!" The words
-poured like a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer
-and closer to the Senora. "You are a cruel woman," she said. "I did not
-know it before; but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no
-reason to treat me so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me
-with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my mother alive'? Where
-does she live? Tell me; and I will go to her to-day. Tell me! She will
-be glad that Alessandro loves me!"
-
-It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora
-answered: "I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is
-still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,--some low, vicious
-creature, that your father married when he was out of his senses, as you
-are now, when you talk of marrying Alessandro!"
-
-"He married her, then?" asked Ramona, with emphasis. "How know you that,
-Senora Moreno?"
-
-"He told my sister so," replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the
-girl even this much of consolation.
-
-"What was his name?" asked Ramona.
-
-"Phail; Angus Phail," the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found
-herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she
-chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew
-how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of
-the one in authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate
-question after question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened
-it. With unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many
-years had rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces,
-gowns of satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the
-chairs, it was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's
-eyes rested on them dreamily.
-
-"Did my adopted mother wear all these?" she asked, lifting in her hand a
-fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration.
-
-Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the
-value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by
-it.
-
-"All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if
-you marry worthily, with my permission," said the Senora, in a voice
-a shade less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. "Did you
-understand what I read you?"
-
-The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson
-silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the
-jewel-box.
-
-"There are pearls in that," said the Senora; "that came with the things
-your father sent to my sister when he died."
-
-Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was
-old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the
-last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. "This was my father's,
-then." she said.
-
-"Yes," said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a new
-baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all which had
-been her father's property. "They were your father's, and all these
-rubies, and these yellow diamonds;" and she pushed the tray towards her.
-
-Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully
-above the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance
-came from the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right
-and left, making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their
-snowy whiteness.
-
-"I will keep this handkerchief," she said, thrusting it as she spoke,
-by a swift resolute movement into her bosom. "I am very glad to have one
-thing that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can give to
-the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I shall marry
-Alessandro;" and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had
-thrust the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her
-chair.
-
-Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust,
-There could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under
-which she had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the
-fact that she had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself
-what Father Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis.
-Her religion and the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from
-her in her sudden wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that
-she became conscious of this.
-
-"Father Salvierderra?" she stammered; "he has nothing to do with it."
-
-But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and
-followed up her advantage. "Father Salvierderra has to do with
-everything," she said boldly. "He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid
-me to marry him, and if he did--" Ramona stopped. She also was smitten
-with a sudden terror at the vista opening before her,--of a disobedience
-to Father Salvierderra.
-
-"And if he did," repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, "would you
-disobey him?"
-
-"Yes," said Ramona.
-
-"I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say," retorted the Senora,
-sarcastically, "that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any
-commands on you, to be thus disobeyed."
-
-Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other
-of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she
-loved the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His
-displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His
-would give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror.
-
-Clasping her hands, she said, "Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that
-to the Father!"
-
-"It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family,"
-answered the Senora, chillingly. "He will agree with me, that if you
-persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I
-shall tell him all;" and she began putting the trays back in the box.
-
-"You will not tell him as it really is, Senora," persisted Ramona. "I
-will tell him myself."
-
-"You shall not see him! I will take care of that!" cried the Senora, so
-vindictively that Ramona shuddered.
-
-"I will give you one more chance," said the Senora, pausing in the
-act of folding up one of the damask gowns. "Will you obey me? Will you
-promise to have nothing more to do with this Indian?"
-
-"Never, Senora," replied Ramona; "never!"
-
-"Then the consequences be on your own head," cried the Senora. "Go to
-your room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe.
-Do you hear?"
-
-Ramona bowed her head. "I hear," she said; and gliding out of the room,
-closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her room, sped like
-a hunted creature down the veranda steps, across the garden, calling in
-a low tone, "Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?"
-
-
-
-
-XII
-
-THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that
-southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to
-Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a
-terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom,
-was wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had
-selected it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro.
-
-When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she
-halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she
-entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of
-some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the
-path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute
-for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. "If the saints would only
-tell me where he is!" she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there,
-fearing each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune
-was favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she
-saw Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. "Oh, Felipe,
-Felipe!" she began.
-
-"Yes, dear, I know it all," interrupted Felipe; "Alessandro has told
-me."
-
-"She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe," said Ramona, "but I could not
-bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?"
-
-"My mother forbade you to speak to me!" cried Felipe, in a tone of
-terror. "Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking,
-she will be even more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to
-me. I will do all that I can."
-
-"But, Felipe," began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress.
-
-"I know! I know!" said Felipe; "but you must not make my mother any more
-angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to
-your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?"
-
-"Yes," sobbed Ramona, "but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help
-us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent,
-will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this
-minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now."
-
-Felipe's face was horror-stricken. "Shut you in the convent!" he gasped.
-"Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk
-to her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me
-talking with you now;" and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the
-terrace.
-
-Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she
-go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again,
-meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro?
-Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when
-she entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless
-weeping. If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's
-journey on his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from
-her each moment, she would have despaired indeed.
-
-This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him
-to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's
-face and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe
-was alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not
-conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked
-with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be
-out of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. "I will
-say that I sent you," said Felipe, "so she cannot feel that you have
-committed any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time
-it will be all settled what you shall do."
-
-It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not
-need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be
-foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be
-out of the question.
-
-"But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is
-for her sake I go?" the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's
-eyes as if he would read his inmost soul.
-
-"I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will," replied Felipe; and he held his
-hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. "You may trust me to
-do all I can do for Ramona and for you."
-
-"God bless you, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight
-trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved.
-
-"He's a noble fellow," said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro
-leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all
-night,--"a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who
-would have been manlier or franker than he has been in this whole
-business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a
-noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to be done!"
-
-Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever
-arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming
-now. He was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted
-whether he could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in
-the convent terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had
-she power to do that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she
-had, or she would not have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted
-at the cruel injustice of the idea.
-
-"As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!" he said.
-"I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can
-make my mother feel so!" And Felipe paced back and forth till the sun
-was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek
-shelter; then he threw himself down under the willows. He dreaded to
-go into the house. His instinctive shrinking from the disagreeable, his
-disposition to put off till another time, held him back, hour by hour.
-The longer he thought the situation over, the less he knew how to broach
-the subject to his mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would
-be wise for him to broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called.
-It was Margarita, who had been sent to call him to dinner. "Good
-heavens! dinner already!" he cried, springing to his feet.
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen
-him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down
-the river road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look,
-and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door together soon after
-breakfast. Margarita could have given a tolerably connected account of
-all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours to the chief
-actors in this tragedy which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno
-household. Not supposed to know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and
-her every pulse was beating high with excited conjecture and wonder as
-to what would come next.
-
-Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,--Ramona absent, the fiction of
-her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the
-Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's
-face, she thought to herself, "Ramona has spoken to him. When and how
-did she do it?" For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left
-her presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her
-own room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the
-morning on the veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How,
-when, and where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer
-the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to
-be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very
-eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not only against
-her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out
-towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise
-retort, "Felipe would not let you!" What had Felipe done or said to make
-the girl so sure that he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it
-come to this, that she, the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own
-house by children and servants!
-
-It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as
-she rose from the dinner-table, "My son, I would like to have some
-conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure."
-
-"Certainly, mother," said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her
-having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and
-walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her
-waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed
-him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm,
-and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said: "This is the most fitting
-way, my son. I must lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age
-is telling on me fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in
-the last year?"
-
-"No, madre mia," replied Felipe, "indeed I do not. I see not that you
-have changed in the last ten years." And he was honest in this. His
-eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of
-reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled
-by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him.
-
-The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: "That must be because you so
-love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles
-tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last
-twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged frightfully;" and she
-looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where
-poor Ramona had swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing
-before her, gazing, with a tender expression, upon her features, but
-saying nothing.
-
-"I see that Ramona has told you all!" she continued, her voice hardening
-as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence!
-
-"No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this
-morning, early," Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the
-conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. "He came and spoke to
-me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning,
-and then I would hear all he had to say."
-
-"Ah!" said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she
-asked, "And what did he say?"
-
-"He told me all that had happened."
-
-"All!" said the Senora, sneeringly. "Do you suppose that he told you
-all?"
-
-"He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight," said Felipe,
-"and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought
-you would prefer not to see him again."
-
-"Ah!" said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so
-promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. "Ah, I
-did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once
-or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might
-devise some measures by which he could be retained on the estate."
-
-Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the
-relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming?
-In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he
-did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure
-that retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any
-good to Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the
-first glimpse of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, "Ah,
-dear mother, if that could only be done, all would be well;" and, never
-noting the expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath,
-he poured out all he thought and felt on the subject.
-
-"That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and
-Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and
-the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he
-would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole
-estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That
-would give them a good living here with us."
-
-"Enough!" cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears
-like a voice from some other world,--so hollow, so strange. He stopped
-speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first words
-he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the floor,--a habit of
-hers when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes
-now, fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not
-all his filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as
-scornful as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored.
-
-"Why do you look at me like that, mother?" he exclaimed. "What have I
-done?"
-
-The Senora waved her hand imperiously. "Enough!" she reiterated. "Do not
-say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;" and she fixed her eyes
-on the floor again.
-
-Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than
-he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for
-the first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl
-like Ramona.
-
-"Poor little one!" he thought. "If my mother looked at her as she did at
-me just now, I wonder she did not die."
-
-A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona
-was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the
-cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time
-in his whole life, angered her beyond her control.
-
-"As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature," she
-thought bitterly to herself, "without her coming between me and Felipe!"
-
-But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh
-lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the
-rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate
-anger at his words.
-
-When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe
-to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said
-in trembling tones: "Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything
-could make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us
-too dear. She must leave the house."
-
-Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A
-bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him
-tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied:
-"I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing
-wrong in her loving Alessandro."
-
-"I found her in his arms!" exclaimed the Senora.
-
-"I know," said Felipe; "Alessandro told me that he had just at that
-instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would
-marry him, just as you came up."
-
-"Humph!" retorted the Senora; "do you think that Indian would have dared
-to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not
-conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to
-speak about marriage to her at all."
-
-"Oh, mother! mother!" was all that Felipe could say to this. He was
-aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his
-mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. "Mother!" he repeated, in
-a tone which spoke volumes.
-
-"Ay," she continued, "that is what I say. I see no reason why he
-hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small
-ceremony of marrying."
-
-"Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would,
-mother," said Felipe courageously; "you do him injustice." He longed
-to add, "And Ramona too," but he feared to make bad matters worse by
-pleading for her at present.
-
-"No, I do not," said the Senora; "I do Alessandro full justice. I
-think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same
-temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has
-happened. It is all Ramona's fault."
-
-Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely
-this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood,
-and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself
-around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear
-her thus wickedly accused.
-
-"Mother!" he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him
-in sudden astonishment. "Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very
-angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona.
-I have seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under
-her feet; and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it
-too! She has seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all
-her soul, just as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I
-am ever loved as well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think
-they ought to be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to
-the estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful
-in it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly natural.
-You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family;
-you know she is half Indian." A scornful ejaculation from his mother
-interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne
-out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to
-stop, because if he did, his mother would speak; and already he felt
-a terror of what her next words might be. "I have often thought about
-Ramona's future, mother. You know a great many men would not want to
-marry her, just because she is half Indian. You, yourself, would never
-have given your consent to my marrying her, if I had wanted to." Again
-an exclamation from the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn.
-But Felipe pressed on. "No, of course you would not, I always knew that;
-except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl
-never drew breath in this God's earth." Felipe was reckless now; having
-entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon that lay within
-his reach; if one did not tell, another might. "You have never loved
-her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I don't think you
-have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how much kinder you
-were to me than to her, and I never could understand it. And you are
-unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've seen her and
-Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been
-with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the
-family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I
-thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever
-looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I
-don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not
-be willing to have my own sister do!" Here Felipe paused. He had made
-his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at
-the onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars.
-
-When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,--and even
-yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined his
-constitution,--the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said in
-a now composed tone: "You do not believe that Ramona has done anything
-that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be
-willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?"
-
-Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been
-speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her
-power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do.
-Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing
-could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards
-her; or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she
-arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her
-imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would
-be no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he
-determined the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate
-crisis.
-
-Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than
-the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her
-wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been
-for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook.
-How just and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly,
-with an expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. "Would
-you be willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?"
-
-Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give
-but one answer to this question. "No, mother," he said, "I should not;
-but--"
-
-"Never mind buts," interrupted his mother; "we have not got to those
-yet;" and she smiled on Felipe,--an affectionate smile, but it somehow
-gave him a feeling of dread. "Of course I knew you could make but one
-answer to my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her
-dead than married to any one of these Indians."
-
-Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. "Not so," he said.
-
-"Wait, dear!" exclaimed his mother. "One thing at a time, I see how full
-your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when
-listening just now to your eloquent defence of Ramona, Perhaps you
-may be right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not
-discuss those points." It was here that the Senora had perceived some
-things that it would be out of her power to do. "We will not discuss
-those, because they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is
-our duty to do by Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on
-her worthiness or unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you
-to allow her to do what you would not allow your own sister to do?" The
-Senora paused for a second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled
-and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on,
-"You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?" And now the
-Senora waited for an answer.
-
-"No, mother," came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. "I suppose not;
-but--"
-
-"I was sure my own son could make no other reply," interrupted the
-Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to
-her questions. "Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona
-do anything which we would not let her do if she were really of our own
-blood. That is the way I have always looked at my obligation to her. My
-sister intended to rear her as her own daughter. She had given her her
-own name. When my sister died, she transferred to me all her right and
-responsibility in and for the child. You do not suppose that if your
-aunt had lived, she would have ever given her consent to her adopted
-daughter's marrying an Indian, do you?"
-
-Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe
-said, in a low tone, "No, I suppose she would not."
-
-"Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only
-that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider
-disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust
-reposed in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who
-transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?"
-
-"Yes, mother," said the unhappy Felipe.
-
-He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw
-somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out;
-in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was
-confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all
-had been said and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was
-evident that it would never be with his mother's consent. "Nor with mine
-either, openly, the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet
-I have promised Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck,
-I wish he had never set foot on the place!" said Felipe in his heart,
-growing unreasonable, and tired with the perplexity.
-
-The Senora continued: "I shall always blame myself bitterly for having
-failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with
-us a great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one
-thing and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's
-being in danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover,
-any more than of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any
-other of the herdsmen or laborers. I regret it more than words can
-express, and I do not know what we can do, now that it has happened."
-
-"That's it, mother! That's it!" broke in Felipe. "You see, you see it is
-too late now."
-
-The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. "I suppose you would
-really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a
-way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place,
-Of course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant
-for Ramona to stay here, and see him continually--at least for a time,
-until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived
-for him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do." The Senora
-artfully interpolated, "What should you think, Felipe, of having her go
-back to the Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there."
-
-The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly
-gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke
-again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had
-cried to him in the garden, "Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up
-in the convent, will you?" "Mother!" he cried, "you would never do that.
-You would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!"
-
-The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "Who spoke of shutting
-up?" she said. "Ramona has already been there at school. She might go
-again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is
-the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get
-over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?"
-And a third time the Senora paused for an answer.
-
-These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing
-in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when,
-withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still
-supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim
-flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as
-settled, much which had never been settled at all, were among the best
-weapons in the Senora's armory. They rarely failed her.
-
-"Advise!" cried Felipe, excitedly. "Advise! This is what I advise--to
-let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our
-obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward
-complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it."
-
-"Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house," interrupted the
-Senora, sighing. "I don't quite see how you would face it."
-
-"Well, I don't propose to face it," continued Felipe, testily. "I don't
-propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go
-away with him, if she wants to.'
-
-"Without our consent?" said the Senora, gently.
-
-"Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have
-stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying
-her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will
-go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how
-he loves her. Let her go!"
-
-"Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?"
-asked the Senora, earnestly. "Run away and marry him, spite of our
-refusing to consent to the marriage?"
-
-"I do," said Felipe.
-
-"Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do,
-is to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she
-pleases?"
-
-"That's just what I do think, mother," replied Felipe, his heart growing
-lighter at her words. "That's just what I do think. We can't prevent
-it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they
-like."
-
-"Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then," said the Senora. "They
-could not stay here."
-
-"I don't see why!" said Felipe, anxiously.
-
-"You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a
-stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't
-you see that would be so?"
-
-Felipe's eyes fell. "Then I suppose they couldn't be married here,
-either," he said.
-
-"What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily
-approved of, my son?"
-
-"True, mother;" and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. "But then
-we force them to run away!"
-
-"Oh, no." said the Senora, icily. "If they go, they will go of their
-own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If
-they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for
-not having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use
-to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done."
-
-Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed
-his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication,
-network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did
-not see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother;
-he did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to
-Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed.
-
-The Senora studied his face. "You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,"
-she said tenderly. "As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate
-state of affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?"
-
-"No," said Felipe, bitterly. "I can't, that's the worst of it. It is
-just turning Ramona out of the house, that's all."
-
-"Felipe! Felipe!" exclaimed the Senora, "how unjust you are to yourself!
-You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a
-home here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as
-she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is
-it our fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to
-what is just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You
-know I promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have
-always felt that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died.
-Ramona has a home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it.
-It is not just, Felipe, to say that we turn her out;" and tears stood in
-the Senora's eyes.
-
-"Forgive me, dear mother," cried the unhappy Felipe. "Forgive me for
-adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable
-business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it
-is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with."
-
-"Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe," replied the Senora. "If
-it were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares
-and burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I
-feel myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say,
-Felipe, I wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send
-for Ramona at once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt
-in great anxiety; we will see her here."
-
-Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew
-not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion.
-
-Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way,
-unlocked Ramona's door, and said: "Ramona, be so good as to come to my
-room. Felipe and I have something to say to you."
-
-Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, "Felipe and I," boded no
-good.
-
-"The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself," thought
-Ramona. "Oh, what will become of me!" and she stole a reproachful,
-imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her;
-but the reassurance did not last long.
-
-"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had
-no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed
-to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold
-and distant they sounded,--as the Senora might speak to an intruding
-stranger.
-
-"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," she said, "my son and I have been discussing
-what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and humiliating position
-in which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of
-course you know--or you ought to know--that it is utterly impossible
-for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be
-false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that."
-
-Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no
-sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with
-downcast eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face,
-despair seized her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where
-was Alessandro! Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,--a cry that
-cut Felipe to the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of
-Ramona's suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he
-had realized. It would have taken very little, at such moments as these,
-to have made Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her
-side, folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It
-took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust
-to Ramona's understanding him later.
-
-Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's
-sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: "My son
-tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that
-you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in
-thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra
-forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your
-determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the
-keeping of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted
-you as her child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some
-means of escape, and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal
-on the family. Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to
-bring you to reason in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I
-wish to impress it upon you that my son, as head of this house, and I,
-as my sister's representative, consider you a member of our own family.
-So long as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it
-always has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and
-us by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves."
-
-The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the
-Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl
-was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and
-her perceptions were sharpened by love.
-
-"Have you anything to say to me or to my son?" asked the Senora.
-
-"No, Senora," replied Ramona; "I do not think of anything more to say
-than I said this morning. Yes," she added, "there is. Perhaps I shall
-not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for
-the home you have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe," she
-continued, turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up
-affection and sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,--"you too, dear
-Felipe. You have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as
-long as I live;" and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took
-them in his, and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted
-him. She did not intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate
-familiarity between her son and Ramona.
-
-"Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?" she said. "Is
-it your purpose to go at once?"
-
-"I do not know, Senora," stammered Ramona; "I have not seen Alessandro;
-I have not heard--" And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who
-answered compassionately,--
-
-"Alessandro has gone."
-
-"Gone!" shrieked Ramona. "Gone! not gone, Felipe!"
-
-"Only for four days," replied Felipe. "To Temecula. I thought it would
-be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back
-immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow."
-
-"Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with
-him? Oh, why, why did he go?" cried Ramona.
-
-"He went because my son told him to go," broke in the Senora, impatient
-of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's
-expressive features. "My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him
-would be more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away,
-and Alessandro obeyed."
-
-Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe,
-and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the
-streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, "You
-have been cruel; God will punish you!" and without waiting to see what
-effect her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she
-walked swiftly out of the room.
-
-"You see," said the Senora, "you see she defies us."
-
-"She is desperate," said Felipe. "I am sorry I sent Alessandro away."
-
-"No, my son," replied the Senora, "you were wise, as you always are.
-It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in
-solitude."
-
-"You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?" cried Felipe.
-
-The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him.
-"You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we
-could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any way? To wash our
-hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?"
-
-"Yes, yes," said the baffled Felipe; "that was what I said. But,
-mother--" He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say.
-
-The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry.
-
-"What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to
-say or do?" she asked.
-
-"What is it you are going to do, mother?" said Felipe. "I don't seem to
-understand what you are going to do."
-
-"Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would
-be thrown away. I shall do nothing," replied the Senora. "Nothing
-whatever."
-
-"Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always
-has been?" said Felipe.
-
-The Senora smiled sadly. "Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A
-girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and
-me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the
-Moreno and the Ortegna name,--we can't feel exactly the same towards her
-as we did before, can we?"
-
-Felipe made an impatient gesture. "No, of course not. But I mean, is
-everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?"
-
-"I supposed so," said the Senora. "Was not that your idea? We must try
-to have it so, I think. Do not you?"
-
-"Yes," groaned Felipe, "if we can!"
-
-
-
-
-XIII
-
-THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter
-of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation
-with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from
-the thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the
-convent, Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna
-jewels turned into the treasury of the Church,--this was the plan she
-had determined on in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not
-to be overseer on the place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she
-would be married to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and
-the Ortegna jewels,--well, that was a thing to be decided in the future;
-that should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora
-was, she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question
-wholly into her own hands.
-
-One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He
-had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in
-sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be
-sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not
-impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so,
-she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest.
-Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret
-from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's
-death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her
-adopted child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father
-came again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it.
-The treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all
-these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went
-away with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply
-stating the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further
-questions must wait for decision until they met.
-
-And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her
-tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial
-failure of her plans.
-
-There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It
-has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,--a system so ingenious
-that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still
-find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at
-reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes
-vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt;
-and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride
-carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field
-unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor
-in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the
-second; and so on till death. It is impossible not to have a certain
-sort of admiration for this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are
-to all who come in their way; but they are equally cruel to themselves,
-when pride demands the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a
-forlorn hope, on the earth, when all other motives have died out of
-men's breasts; has won many a crown, which has not been called by its
-true name.
-
-Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of
-the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture
-soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual
-occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do
-"nothing" in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that
-meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also
-would do "nothing;" but her mind still misgave her about Felipe.
-Unpityingly she had led him on, and entangled him in his own words,
-step by step, till she had brought him to the position she wished him to
-take. Ostensibly, his position and hers were one, their action a unit;
-all the same, she did not deceive herself as to his real feeling about
-the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question
-of family pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested
-it, and which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press
-it,--barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry Ramona
-and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost in Felipe's
-mind again when he was removed from the pressure of her influence.
-Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him on the subject again,
-or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would be best attained
-by taking and keeping the ground that the question of their
-non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic
-should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await
-Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to
-inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now.
-
-The details of the "nothing" she proposed to do, slowly arranged
-themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's
-position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no
-watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down
-with them, as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's
-sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any provocation to Ramona
-to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment
-of every hour, that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not
-of them; that she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it.
-How this was to be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but
-she knew very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this
-would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did
-she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro,
-that she might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the
-offence she would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did
-perceive this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,--the Senora
-grew almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated
-this contingency,--if she did thus humble herself and return to her
-rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her,
-and would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would
-take her to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more
-of the world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come
-about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see
-that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if
-Ramona herself would behave properly.
-
-Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper,
-and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was
-drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it
-both in her voice and look.
-
-The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done
-so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the
-turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to
-Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought;
-but before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's
-eye and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The
-emotion of half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words
-changed quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and
-she said to herself: "That's the way she is going to break me down, she
-thinks! But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the
-minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him." This train of thought
-in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and
-hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of
-surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice.
-
-Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had
-overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and
-Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion
-as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped
-being caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the
-passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out,
-after her final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had
-distinctly heard: "God will punish you."
-
-"Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?" ejaculated
-Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not
-even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following Ramona,
-saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she
-called, "How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of
-the day, Margarita?"
-
-It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick
-lie which she instantaneously told. "There was early breakfast, Senora,
-to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother
-was not up, so I had it to cook."
-
-As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She
-changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering
-about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the
-sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as
-he rode past,--only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he
-had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had
-at Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been
-Margarita's motive for telling this lie?
-
-But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long
-with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing
-which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the
-Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there
-was added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of
-jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants
-of late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to
-his being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family.
-
-While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music,
-there was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and
-went as a physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should
-this freedom and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen
-mutterings of this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers
-and servants were gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being
-absent from the group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming
-from the south veranda, where the family sat.
-
-"It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,"
-Juan Canito would grumble; "but the lad's chary enough of his bow on
-this side the house."
-
-"Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!" Margarita would reply;
-"'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not
-always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides
-fiddling!" and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an
-expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to
-draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would
-she answer. She knew better than to slander the Senorita Ramona, or to
-say a word even reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman
-there would have borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came
-among them as a toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her
-now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,--nursed
-them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days.
-To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what
-she suspected; and old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such
-words, had terrified Margarita into the solemnest of promises never,
-under any circumstances whatever, to say such things to any other member
-of the family. Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed
-that Margarita's jealousy had imagined all.
-
-"And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour,
-and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you
-blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!"
-
-When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had
-just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into
-her room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her
-with Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in
-sheer mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed
-Margarita's ears for telling her.
-
-"I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again!
-Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof,
-and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of
-your senses, child!" she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the
-room.
-
-"You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not," retorted Margarita,
-and ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was
-shut, and the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old Marda had
-herself crept softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard
-Ramona sobbing as if her heart would break. Then she knew that what
-Margarita had said must be true, and her faithful soul was in sore
-straits what to think. The Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever
-happened, it was not that! There was some horrible mistake somewhere.
-Kneeling at the keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, "Oh, my
-lamb, what is it?" But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too
-great of remaining; so scrambling up with difficulty from her rheumatic
-knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in the dark
-as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence, crosser than ever
-to her daughter. All the next day she watched for herself, and could
-not but see that all appearances bore out Margarita's statements.
-Alessandro's sudden departure had been a tremendous corroboration of the
-story. Not one of the men had had an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo,
-both alike astonished; no word left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe
-had said carelessly to Juan Can, after breakfast: "You'll have to look
-after things yourself for a few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to
-Temecula."
-
-"For a few days!" exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was
-repeated to her. "That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here
-again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south veranda,
-I wager you."
-
-But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard,
-as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, "Are
-you ready for supper, Ramona?" and Ramona was seen to come out and walk
-by the Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,--but then
-that was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the
-Senora's presence,--when Marda, standing in the court-yard, feigning to
-be feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways,
-saw this, she was relieved, and thought: "It's only a dispute there has
-been. There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our
-affair. All is settled now."
-
-And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all
-coming in as usual,--the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,--no change, even to
-her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had
-been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than
-once since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she
-remembered.
-
-But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its
-complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results
-attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure
-put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of
-comparison in matter of blindness,--"blind as a bat," for instance. It
-would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom
-a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance
-and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the
-bosoms of their families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and
-heal, strength falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether,
-every day, without being noted by the closest lookers-on.
-
-Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a
-storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed
-the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and
-reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any
-serious disaster could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered
-about in his usual fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in
-the veranda, dozing. The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed
-her birds, spoke to every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair
-with her hands folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied
-herself with her usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers
-before all the Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had
-been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel.
-It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she
-held up the frame in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate
-tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling
-of interest and hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it,
-often saying to herself, "She won't care much for it, beautiful as it
-is, just because I did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when
-he sees it."
-
-Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: "She will
-never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to
-Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him.
-I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it
-would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me." But as she
-thought these things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had
-settled on Ramona. "Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything
-for four days!" these words were coming and going in her mind like
-refrains of songs which haunt one's memory and will not be still. She
-saw that Felipe looked anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring
-looks always with a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did
-not intend that she and Felipe should have any private conversation;
-but that did not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be
-said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for
-the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of the
-Senora's anger should have spent itself.
-
-After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone,
-had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come
-back prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know;
-but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the
-Senora good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far
-Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It
-was a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way:
-no wedding--no wedding clothes--no friends--to go unmarried, and journey
-to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; "but it is not my
-fault," said Ramona to herself; "it is hers. She drives me to do it. If
-it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly
-come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could go to
-him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride so
-far; we could do it in two days." The more Ramona thought of this, the
-more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. "He will be on
-our side, I know he will," she thought. "He always liked Alessandro, and
-he loves me."
-
-It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's
-mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too
-full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's
-habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up
-she had accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now
-she accepted her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of
-things, and not to be altered.
-
-During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds
-of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that
-there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting
-on the veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was
-deceived by her calmness, and wondered what it meant,--if it could be
-that she was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible,
-and designated as coming "to her senses." Even Felipe did not know the
-steadfast fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond
-had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of
-what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part
-of their intercourse with each other; nothing could have been farther
-removed from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis
-of incident, or marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's
-imaginations of love were essential to the fulness of its growth. This
-is a common mistake on the part of those who have never felt love's true
-bonds. Once in those chains, one perceives that they are not of the sort
-full forged in a day. They are made as the great iron cables are made,
-on which bridges are swung across the widest water-channels,--not of
-single huge rods, or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look
-at, but of myriads of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so
-frail, it would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds,
-hundreds of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made
-the mighty cables, which do not any more swerve from their place in the
-air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread of two
-cities, than the solid earth swerves under the same ceaseless weight and
-jar. Such cables do not break.
-
-Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved
-Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden
-adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply
-a response; but now it was as strong a love as his,--as strong, and as
-unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air
-to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent
-seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny
-called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy
-with which Alessandro would hear this,--the joy and the surprise. She
-imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in
-which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best;
-as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would
-tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of
-greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment then.
-She would wait till they were far away, till they were alone, in the
-wilderness; and then she would turn to him, and say, "Alessandro, my
-people are your people!" Or she would wait, and keep her secret until
-she had reached Temecula, and they had begun their life there, and
-Alessandro had been astonished to see how readily and kindly she took
-to all the ways of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed
-some such emotion, she would quietly say, "But I too am an Indian,
-Alessandro!"
-
-Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat
-with happiness as she dreamed them.
-
-
-
-
-XIV
-
-THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word
-had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the
-Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel
-a thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought
-this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona.
-She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that
-he had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have
-been disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning
-or expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest,
-of which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance.
-
-Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through
-her window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with
-wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance
-to hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed
-make bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first
-sound of his footsteps on the veranda floor, "My son, are you ill? Can I
-do anything?" came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at
-all. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan
-again; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with
-sheer impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the
-bed, taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The
-Senora sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It
-was very hot; a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been
-blowing all day, and every living creature was more or less prostrated
-by it.
-
-As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking
-out a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly
-writing. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her
-that it was for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was
-asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his
-hand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly
-watching him; the sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat
-up instantly, and gazed about her with that indescribable expression
-peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they
-have. "Have I been asleep?" she asked.
-
-"About one minute, mother," answered Felipe, who was leaning, as he
-spoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him.
-Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, he
-said, "This heat is intolerable!" Then he sauntered leisurely down the
-veranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench
-under the trellis there.
-
-The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with
-fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the
-Senora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But
-fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing
-off again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona.
-As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora
-opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was
-going into the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe.
-
-"Are you going to your room, Ramona?" said the Senor.
-
-"I was," replied Ramona, alarmed. "Did you want me here?"
-
-"No," said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again.
-
-In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands.
-
-"Dear Ramona," Felipe had written, "I am distracted because I cannot
-speak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain things
-to you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandro
-will surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but you
-saw I could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing what you please;
-but, dear, I wish you would not go away from us!"
-
-Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her
-bosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing
-that the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply
-to Felipe, though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to
-him, there was no telling. "Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I
-am not unhappy. I understand all about it. But I must go away as soon as
-Alessandro comes." Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back to
-the veranda. Felipe rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly
-bold, stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tired
-eyes of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramona
-was at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. He
-nodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. All
-was well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than she
-would ever know. This one secret interchange between Felipe and Ramona
-then, thus making, as it were, common cause with each other as against
-her, and in fear of her, was a step never to be recalled,--a step whose
-significance could scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and
-small, are apt to overlook such possibilities as this; to forget the
-momentousness which the most trivial incident may assume when forced
-into false proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats
-out of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except close
-students of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do this, the
-world cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters more innocent than
-the tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia that stands branded in
-men's thoughts, and not Siberia.
-
-The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was
-living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how
-little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever
-felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and
-this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and
-hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a
-day.
-
-The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had.
-All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what
-Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on
-the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have
-made the journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that
-there might be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He
-would doubtless return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case
-that proved the only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as
-his fancy dwelt on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the
-Temecula village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was
-monstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a
-girl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment contemplate leading
-the life of a poor laboring man's wife. He could not conceive of love's
-making one undertake any such life. Felipe had much to learn of love.
-Night came; no Alessandro. Till the darkness settled down, Ramona sat,
-watching the willows. When she could no longer see, she listened. The
-Senora, noting all, also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stage
-of affairs, but she would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve
-from the line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full of
-the moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill, and
-flooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just as it
-had done on that first night when Alessandro watched with Felipe on the
-veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the window-panes, and gazed out
-into the garden. At each flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the
-form of a man approaching. Again and again she saw it. Again and again
-the breeze died, and the shadow ceased. It was near morning before,
-weary, sad, she crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious
-eyes, she still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossed
-her mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said. In
-her childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly as
-she had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not come,
-unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her, and she asked
-herself continually, "Will he ever come! They sent him away; perhaps he
-will be too proud to come back!" Then faith would return, and saying to
-herself, "He would never, never forsake me; he knows I have no one in
-the whole world but him; he knows how I love him," she would regain
-composure, and remind herself of the many detentions which might have
-prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she was
-heavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were
-sad to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also
-was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The girl
-might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear. But why
-should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It was a bad
-symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed, trouble
-ahead,--of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured.
-
-Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now
-since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand,
-and said: "You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she
-understands why I go; and in four days I will be back." One week, and he
-had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly
-into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought.
-
-Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken
-possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh
-days she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he
-would be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out
-to the highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the
-distance,--the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back
-after dark, whiter and more wan than she went out. As she sat at the
-supper-table, silent, making no feint of eating, only drinking glass
-after glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even Margarita pitied her. But
-the Senora did not. She thought the best thing which could happen, would
-be that the Indian should never come back. Ramona would recover from it
-in a little while; the mortification would be the worst thing, but even
-that, time would heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pride
-than to let her wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would have
-died before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a whole
-household to see and gossip about.
-
-On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as
-he was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and
-saw them; but Ramona did not care. "Felipe!" she cried, "I must, I must
-speak to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him
-from coming?" Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky.
-A few more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe
-thought, as he looked compassionately at her.
-
-"Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!" he replied. "A thousand things
-might have kept him."
-
-"Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!" said Ramona. "I know he
-is dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?"
-
-The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words.
-Looking toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been
-within sight or hearing, the Senora said, "It seems to me that would not
-be quite consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' If
-you thought best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, I
-suppose."
-
-Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There
-were several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the
-place was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs,
-emptying the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in
-a long shed. In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it
-took one man to watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons
-of his own he liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer
-tread grapes in the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work
-at the still. "No ill but has its good," he thought sometimes, as he lay
-comfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day,
-and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy.
-
-As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to
-Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone,
-nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: "She
-looks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot send
-to summon back a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is very
-perplexing. Most unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?"
-There was almost a diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora
-could, by a single phrase or question, plant in a person's mind the
-precise idea she wished him to think he had originated himself.
-
-"No; of course we can't send for him," replied Felipe, angrily; "unless
-it is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on the
-place. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. I
-believe she will die."
-
-"I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place," said the
-Senora, gently, "for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; and
-he is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying,
-She may be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro."
-
-"Of what kind do they die, mother?" asked Felipe, impatiently.
-
-The Senora looked reproachfully at him. "Not often of any," she said;
-"but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneath
-them, in position, in education, in all points which are essential to
-congeniality of tastes or association of life."
-
-The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing
-an abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for
-the moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a
-disgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not
-be gainsaid that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was
-undeniably Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external
-matters of life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro
-was no man's inferior in these; and in capacity to love,--Felipe
-sometimes wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that.
-This thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he
-had, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at
-Ramona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present
-dilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send
-a messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had
-been an accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that!
-Ramona ought to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And
-when Felipe, later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her.
-He said it as gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first
-comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith,
-how could she?
-
-When she did understand, she said slowly: "You mean that it will not do
-to send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if I
-wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?" and she fixed her
-eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom.
-
-"Yes, dear," he answered, "something like that, though you put it
-harshly."
-
-"Is it not true," she persisted, "that is what you mean?"
-
-Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was.
-
-Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still
-more slowly, "If you feel like that, we had better never talk about
-Alessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, as
-I do, that nothing but his being dead would keep him from coming
-back. Thanks, dear Felipe;" and after this she did not speak again of
-Alessandro.
-
-Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if
-Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost
-even the Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted
-face, as she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on
-the willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would
-never hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to
-Father Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old
-man, could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she
-could surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not
-many roads; she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which
-had been so terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had
-threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter
-she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the convent at
-San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father to let her go
-there, and she would spend the rest of her life in prayer, and in
-teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat revolving this
-plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the future, that she
-lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged, old. She saw the
-procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the children by the hand;
-herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking between two of the little
-ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon as she grew a little stronger,
-she would set off on her journey to the Father; she could not go just
-yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled if she did but walk to the foot
-of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there could be no doubt of that.
-He was buried in that little walled graveyard of which he had told
-her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there and see his grave,
-perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man
-would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work might lie there,
-among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had not courage for
-it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,--the sound of the Church's
-prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent was the best.
-
-She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for
-she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river
-road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not
-go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora,
-who asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: "No, Senora, I do not
-think I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better
-to-morrow."
-
-"I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the Senora said; and sent
-her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down
-at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much
-thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. "Oh,
-Senorita! Senorita!" she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, "are you
-going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!"
-
-"I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied Ramona, raising
-herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face
-as she took the broth from her hands. "I do not know why you ask me to
-forgive you."
-
-Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of
-weeping. "Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!"
-
-"No, I know nothing," replied Ramona; "but if you know anything, it is
-all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away," she
-added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she
-could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no
-longer be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. "I am going
-away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a
-convent; but the Senora does not know. You will not tell?"
-
-"No, Senorita!" whispered Margarita,--thinking in her heart, "Yes, she
-is going away, but it will be with the angels."--"No, Senorita, I will
-not tell. I will do anything you want me to."
-
-"Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I thought you would;" and she
-lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like
-death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before,
-and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, "Mother, mother! the Senorita is
-ill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as
-white as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever."
-
-"Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; "ay, she has
-wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have
-seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death."
-
-"Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,--hardly since that day;"
-and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to
-further define the day.
-
-"Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again," continued
-Margarita.
-
-"The saints grant it, then," said Marda, hotly, "if it is he has cost
-the Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all,
-that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up
-with whatever 'tis has gone wrong."
-
-"I could tell what it is," said Margarita, her old pertness coming
-uppermost for a moment; "but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita's
-lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break your
-heart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for all
-I've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be with
-him before long; I know she is."
-
-"No," said the wiser, older Marda. "She is not so ill as you think. She
-is young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been that
-way myself. People are, when they're young."
-
-"I'm young!" retorted Margarita. "I've never been that way."
-
-"There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl," said Marda,
-significantly; "and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb
-when I was your age!"
-
-Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child
-of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's
-father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were
-perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and
-daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough
-to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly
-leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust
-and ill-founded.
-
-"She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do," thought Margarita.
-"I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me;
-never,--not till after she's gone."
-
-A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on
-the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were
-not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to
-go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone
-with him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover
-ever wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the
-thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having
-had it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet
-so strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion
-were to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been
-deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and
-she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of
-displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now
-that the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no
-room for anything but pity for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage
-again, and all would be changed. The old hostility would return. It was
-but a dubious sort of ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly
-secured in Margarita. She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds.
-
-It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona
-had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself
-began to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of
-all thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed
-torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced
-rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over
-crises, strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be
-slain.
-
-As Ramona lay half unconscious,--neither awake nor yet asleep,--on this
-evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression produced upon her;
-it was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone; the house was still
-as death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She sat
-up in her bed, intent--half alarmed--half glad--bewildered--alive. What
-had happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fast
-deepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered senses
-and faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked around
-the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands, and
-leaped from the bed. "Alessandro is not dead!" she said aloud; and she
-laughed hysterically. "He is not dead!" she repeated. "He is not dead!
-He is somewhere near!"
-
-With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After
-the first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not
-tremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. "Oh, miracle!" she thought,
-as she hastened down the garden-walk; "I am well again! Alessandro is
-near!" So vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willows
-and found the spot silent, vacant, as when she had last sat there,
-hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a revulsion of disappointment.
-"Not here!" she cried; "not here!" and a swift fear shook her. "Am I
-mad? Is it this way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as
-I have been!"
-
-But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this
-was no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a
-revelation. Alessandro was near.
-
-Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener
-grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present
-mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that
-she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro.
-
-As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter
-of a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing,
-leaning against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be
-Alessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near the house
-where he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet
-a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely still; so still
-that, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied it might be an
-optical illusion. She advanced a few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped.
-As she did so, the man advanced a few steps, then stopped. As he came
-out from the shadows of the trees, she saw that he was of Alessandro's
-height. She quickened her steps, then suddenly stopped again. What did
-this mean? It could not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony
-of suspense. An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; but
-terror held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, she
-turned to walk back to the house, saying, "I must not run the risk of
-its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come."
-
-But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower
-and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had
-returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the
-tree.
-
-"It may be a messenger from him," she said; "a messenger who has been
-told not to come to the house until after dark."
-
-Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments
-more brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was--yes, it
-was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away,
-his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, rather
-than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps,
-turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were
-clasped in each other's arms before they had looked in each other's
-faces. Ramona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking
-up, she began: "Alessandro--" But at the first sight of his face she
-shrieked. Was this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man,
-who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! "O God,"
-cried Ramona, "You have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what
-is it?"
-
-Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to
-collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes
-fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both
-her hands in his.
-
-"Senorita," he said, "my Senorita!" Then he stopped. His tongue seemed
-to refuse him utterance; and this voice,--this strange, hard, unresonant
-voice,--whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.
-
-"My Senorita," he began again, "I could not go without one sight of your
-face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If
-you had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you."
-
-Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean?
-Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.
-
-"Heavens, Senorita!" he cried, "have you not heard? Do you not know what
-has happened?"
-
-"I know nothing, love," answered Ramona. "I have heard nothing since
-you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night
-something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you."
-
-At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms
-around her again. As she said "love," his whole frame shook with
-emotion.
-
-"My Senorita!" he whispered, "my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How
-shall I tell you!"
-
-"What is there to tell, Alessandro?" she said. "I am afraid of nothing,
-now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought."
-
-But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining
-her closer to his breast, he cried: "Dearest Senorita! I feel as if
-I should die when I tell you,--I have no home; my father is dead;
-my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now,
-Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!"
-As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against
-the tree, added: "I am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving."
-
-Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its
-look of incredulous horror. He misread it.
-
-"I only came to look at you once more," he continued. "I will go now.
-May the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent
-you to me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had not
-come."
-
-While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting
-it now, she said, "Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead,
-Alessandro?"
-
-"I thought that the news about our village must have reached you," he
-said, "and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, to
-seem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was little
-enough I had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believe
-that you could come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I had
-thought of many things I could do; and--" lowering his voice and
-speaking almost sullenly--"it is the saints, I believe, who have
-punished me thus for having resolved to leave my people, and take all I
-had for myself and you. Now they have left me nothing;" and he groaned.
-
-"Who?" cried Ramona. "Was there a battle? Was your father killed?" She
-was trembling with horror.
-
-"No," answered Alessandro. "There was no battle. There would have been,
-if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it
-would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged
-me to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He
-felt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We
-had often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you
-recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,--how fair he always was, and
-kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles
-and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost,
-than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order his
-men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be
-trouble; and well they might,--turning a whole village full of men and
-women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like foxes.
-If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead,
-if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was no
-help for us."
-
-"But, Alessandro," interrupted Ramona, "I can't understand. Who was it
-made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?"
-
-"I don't know who they are," Alessandro replied, his voice full of
-anger and scorn. "They're Americans--eight or ten of them. They all got
-together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and it
-was decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr.
-Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could
-go against the law."
-
-"Oh," said Ramona, "that's the way the Americans took so much of the
-Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San Francisco;
-and they decided that miles and miles of her land, which the General
-had always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the United
-States Government."
-
-"They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!" cried
-Alessandro. "They are going to steal all the land in this country; we
-might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them have
-it. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; but
-I did not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but he
-was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to be
-thankful for now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and I
-prayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. He
-never knew anything clear after they took him out of his house. That was
-before I got there. I found him sitting on the ground outside. They said
-it was the sun that had turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his
-heart breaking in his bosom. He would not come out of his house, and
-the men lifted him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on the
-ground; and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when he
-saw them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out,
-'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said it
-was a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobody
-could stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling. God!
-Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I got there,
-some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head, to keep the
-sun off. He did not call any more, only for water, water. That was what
-made them think the sun had done it. They did all they could; but it was
-such a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the sheriff's men were in
-great hurry; they gave no time. They said the people must all be off in
-two days. Everybody was running hither and thither. Everything out of
-the houses in piles on the ground. The people took all the roofs off
-their houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they would do
-again. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is like
-death. I can't!"
-
-Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love,
-in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like
-this.'
-
-"Don't weep, Senorita," said Alessandro, drearily. "Tears kill one, and
-do no good."
-
-"How long did your father live?" asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer
-around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona,
-yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one
-to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if
-he had been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his
-enfeebled and benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received
-these caresses, which once would have made him beside himself with joy.
-He leaned against her breast as a child might.
-
-"He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I came
-away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, is
-almost weaker than I. The Americans took my horse," Alessandro said.
-
-"Took your horse!" cried Ramona, aghast. "Is that the law, too?"
-
-"So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must take
-enough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit up
-in San Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they were worth,
-I thought; but they said cattle were selling very low now. There were
-not enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up in
-horses; and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove the
-cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's head before any
-American should ever have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachanga
-with my father. He would not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led
-him all the way; and then after he got there he was so ill I never left
-him a minute. He did not know me any more, nor know anything that had
-happened. I built a little hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he
-died. When I put him in his grave, I was glad."
-
-"In Temecula?" asked Ramona.
-
-"In Temecula." exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. "You don't seem to
-understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to our
-graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be
-hanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in were a
-rough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw him
-trespassing on their property."
-
-"Their property!" ejaculated Ramona.
-
-"Yes; it is theirs," said Alessandro, doggedly. "That is the law.
-They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always
-said,--if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they never
-did in those days. Nobody had papers. The American law is different."
-
-"It's a law of thieves!" cried Ramona.
-
-"Yes, and of murderers too," said Alessandro. "Don't you call my father
-murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita,
-my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin?
-But, my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I will
-speak no more."
-
-"No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not
-share. Tell me about Jose," cried Ramona, breathlessly.
-
-"Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year
-ago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was the
-only other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and that
-splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at home
-when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking.
-That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little baby
-only a few weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like to live,
-and Jose would not leave it. Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff
-riding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose
-knew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my
-father, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one
-minute, and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit
-like that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would
-die. But he did not. They picked him up, and presently he was better;
-and Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the moving the first
-day as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on the
-ground with the women, and covered up their faces, and would not see.
-But Jose worked; and, Senorita, one of the first things he did, was to
-run with my father's violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her
-to hide it for us; Jose knew it was worth money. But before noon the
-second day he had another fit, and died in it,--died right in his own
-door, carrying out some of the things; and after Carmena--that's his
-wife's name--saw he was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back
-and forth on the ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to
-Pachanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession
-of us."
-
-"Where is Pachanga?" asked Ramona.
-
-"About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told
-the people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to
-anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any
-water; that's the worst of it."
-
-"No water!" cried Ramona.
-
-"No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by it
-as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all.
-I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her on
-one arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but the baby cried,
-so she took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live the day out; but
-it did live till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hours
-before he died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl,
-and sat down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'How
-is the little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead.
-'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We will
-bury them together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at night
-she helped me dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's
-breast; but she said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it
-herself; and we put them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She
-was sitting there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two
-little trees with the boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves.
-So that is the way our new graveyard was begun,--my father and the
-little baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the blessed
-fortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!"
-
-"Where did they bury Jose?" gasped Ramona.
-
-"In Temecula," said Alessandro. "Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men dig
-a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at
-night and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is very
-dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not stay
-longer. Can I go as far as the brook with you, safely, without being
-seen? The saints bless you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived,
-I think, without one more sight of your face;" and, springing to his
-feet, Alessandro stood waiting for Ramona to move. She remained
-still. She was in a sore strait. Her heart held but one impulse, one
-desire,--to go with Alessandro; nothing was apparently farther from
-his thoughts than this. Could she offer to go? Should she risk laying a
-burden on him greater than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as
-he said, would his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herself
-strong and able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knew
-nothing of, but she felt no fear of them.
-
-"Alessandro!" she said, in a tone which startled him.
-
-"My Senorita!" he said tenderly.
-
-"You have never once called me Ramona."
-
-"I cannot, Senorita!" he replied.
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'" he added faintly; "but not
-often. If I think of you by any other name than as my Senorita, it is
-usually by a name you never heard."
-
-"What is it?" exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.
-
-"An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,--the
-wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thought
-my people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. It
-is a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you."
-
-Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she
-laid both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said:
-"Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to
-your people."
-
-Alessandro's silence astonished her. "You are surprised," she said. "I
-thought you would be glad."
-
-"The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita," he said. "I knew
-it!"
-
-"How?" cried Ramona. "And you never told me, Alessandro!"
-
-"How could I?" he replied. "I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me."
-
-"Juan Canito!" said Ramona, musingly. "How could he have known?" Then in
-a few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her.
-"Is that what Juan Can said?" she asked.
-
-"All except the father's name," stammered Alessandro.
-
-"Who did he say was my father?" she asked.
-
-Alessandro was silent.
-
-"It matters not," said Ramona. "He was wrong. The Senora, of course,
-knew. He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he
-gave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of my
-father."
-
-"Yes, you have, my Senorita," replied Alessandro, tenderly. "After I
-knew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to me
-like the faces of my own people."
-
-"Are you not glad, Alessandro?"
-
-"Yes, my Senorita."
-
-What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without
-premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what
-she was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: "Oh,
-Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than
-have you leave me again!"
-
-
-
-
-XV
-
-ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of
-his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost
-pain; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak.
-Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on
-his forehead reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and
-trembling she could barely understand his words: "My Senorita knows that
-my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and
-neither the fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make
-me glad for her sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it
-away. She is tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a
-bed, and have no food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says."
-
-His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking
-of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather
-than speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter
-Ramona. "I am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We
-can both work. I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us
-food," she said.
-
-"That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away
-that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not
-afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least always be food,
-and I could make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the
-saints are displeased. They do not pray for us any more. It is as my
-father said, they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy us all.
-I do not know but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison
-us, to get us all out of the country, as they do the rabbits and the
-gophers; it would not be any worse than what they have done. Would not
-you rather be dead, Senorita, than be as I am to-day?"
-
-Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share
-his lot. "Alessandro," she interrupted, "there are many men among your
-people who have wives, are there not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita!" replied Alessandro, wonderingly.
-
-"Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has
-come?"
-
-"No, Senorita." still more wonderingly; "how could they?"
-
-"They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make
-them happier, are they not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita." Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended.
-It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed
-in her lines of interrogation.
-
-"Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?"
-
-"Very much, Senorita." A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could
-not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even
-her neck changed color as she asked her last question. "Do you think any
-one of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?"
-
-Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done.
-Were not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not
-enough to make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was
-silent.
-
-"You know there is not one!" said Ramona, impetuously.
-
-"Oh, it is too much!" cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly.
-Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out
-breathless: "My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare
-not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must
-live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you
-had never seen me."
-
-"Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?"
-said Ramona. "I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all
-alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra,
-and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is
-what I will do now if you leave me!"
-
-"Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful
-Senorita in the convent! No, no!" cried Alessandro, greatly agitated.
-
-"Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out
-to-morrow."
-
-Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do
-as she said. "Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a
-wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me."
-
-"When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent
-would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do
-good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never
-have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather
-die, than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!"
-
-Alessandro was conquered. "I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,"
-he said gravely,--no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was
-hollow; "I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you,
-even if they have forsaken me and my people!"
-
-"Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake any
-one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long,
-Alessandro," cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn
-silence for a moment, as if registering a vow.
-
-Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any
-woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro.
-
-When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, "Then
-you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?"
-
-"I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my
-Ramona," replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing
-his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not
-tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when
-he first saw Ramona bending over the brook under the willows he had said
-aloud, "My God! what shall I do!"
-
-It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro
-wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the
-Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. "You do
-not know the Senora, Alessandro," she cried, "or you would never think
-of it. She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she
-would kill me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to
-prevent my going away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw
-me in the well in the court-yard, rather than have me go with you."
-
-"I would never let her harm you," said Alessandro. "Neither would Senor
-Felipe."
-
-"She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax," answered
-Ramona. "She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help
-himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't
-dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is
-asleep. We must go at once."
-
-Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to
-wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to
-embrace him again. "Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir
-from this place till I come," she said.
-
-"I will be here when you come," he said.
-
-"It will not be more than two hours," she said, "or three, at the
-utmost. It must be nine o'clock now."
-
-She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave
-the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something
-to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her
-innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she
-had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey.
-As Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had
-pictured himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing
-Antonio's matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen
-short days ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up
-and seen Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the
-wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of
-a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved
-her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had
-uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound to his side,
-and with gasps between his words told him. Alessandro could not remember
-the words, only that after them he set his teeth, and dropping the
-bridle, laid his head down between Benito's ears, and whispered to him;
-and Benito never stopped, but galloped on all that day, till he came
-into Temecula; and there Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and
-the wagons being loaded, and the people running about, the women and
-children wailing; and then they showed him the place where his father
-lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go,
-and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And
-now here he was, under the willows,--the same copse where he first
-halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark night, and
-Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and she was going back
-presently to go away with him,--where! He had no home in the wide world
-to which to take her,--and this poor beast he had ridden from Temecula,
-had it strength enough left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had
-himself walked more than half the distance, to spare the creature, and
-yet there had been good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too
-long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had
-found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses
-taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But Alessandro,
-even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved in his mind a
-project he would not have dared to confide to her. If Baba, Ramona's own
-horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without difficulty
-lure him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it were,
-it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had
-always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he
-could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by
-Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona
-could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly
-as complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest
-pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to caress
-and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young
-mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as
-the sound of Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with
-quick but stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the
-willows, he skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the
-sheepfolds lay, and then turned up to approach the corral from the
-farther side. There was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They
-were all asleep. That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they
-slept; many a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice
-over their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,--out
-and in without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny.
-leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible
-whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end of
-the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the group; and
-one of them turned and came a pace or two toward Alessandro.
-
-"I believe that is Baba himself," thought Alessandro; and he made
-another low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he
-suspected some mischief.
-
-"Baba," whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any
-dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed
-instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution.
-If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little
-more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the
-fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and
-giving soft whinnying sighs.
-
-"Hush! hush! Baba," whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a
-human being. "Hush!" and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper
-rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as
-soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still
-by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself,
-spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning
-as to how Baba had managed to get out of the corral.
-
-This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro
-had hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get
-the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things
-hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in
-Southern California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate,
-as any Signal Service Report could be,--a floor and a roof; no walls,
-only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large
-scale are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The
-longer he thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle.
-
-"Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the
-ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving
-you. Come, Baba!" and he struck down the hill again, the horse following
-him softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run,
-with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few
-moments they were safe in the willow copse, where Alessandro's poor pony
-was tethered. Fastening Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him
-on the neck, pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, "Good Baba,
-stay here till the Senorita comes." Baba whinnied.
-
-"Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!" thought
-Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He
-felt strong now,--felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy
-thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses
-had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the
-ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn,
-several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his
-adventure; every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some
-seconds, then crept a few paces more. As he neared the corner where
-Ramona's saddle always hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night,
-Luigo slept on the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost.
-Groping in the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt
-for the saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the
-ground again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he
-made, that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear.
-
-"Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!" said Alessandro to
-himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and,
-springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders.
-It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for
-the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in
-comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba
-would carry them both, and never know it; and it might come to that,
-Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was
-stretched out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in
-scornful wonder at this strange new associate.
-
-"The saints be praised!" thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to
-wait. "This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita."
-
-Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be
-best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek
-a new home?
-
-It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay
-each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to
-San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard
-ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on
-the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr.
-Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro
-remembered his own violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay
-in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it
-possible? No, of course it could not be possible that the Senorita would
-think to bring it. What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro
-was sure.
-
-How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more
-and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded,
-the darkness dense. "It must have been the saints, too, that brought me
-on a night when there was no moon," he thought; and then he said again,
-devout and simple-minded man that he was. "They mean to protect my
-Senorita; they will let me take care of her."
-
-Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had
-reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her,
-Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had
-given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she
-had not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have
-known that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have
-watched to see what it meant.
-
-Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda,
-sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not
-late.
-
-As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her
-windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's
-feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and
-prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where
-to go.
-
-"I know she will! I am sure she will!" whispered Ramona to herself as
-she rose from her knees.
-
-Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe
-should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she
-wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago,
-when she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour.
-
-Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two
-of the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of
-burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and
-are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are
-gathered at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the
-forehead. In these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease,
-heavier loads than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona
-recollected these, she had been perplexed to know how she should carry
-the things which she had made up her mind it would be right for her to
-take,--only a few; simply necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls;
-the new altar-cloth, and two changes of clothes; that would not be a
-great deal; she had a right to so much, she thought, now that she
-had seen the jewels in the Senora's keeping. "I will tell Father
-Salvierderra exactly what I took," she thought, "and ask him if it was
-too much." She did not like to think that all these clothes she must
-take had been paid for with the Senora Moreno's money.
-
-And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What
-would life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los
-Angeles, he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had
-devised several ways by which they could both earn money.
-
-There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too;
-wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt
-he looked. "Starving," he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And
-she had sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good
-food thrown to the dogs to eat.
-
-It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that
-before Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona
-dared feel sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was
-dark; it was past midnight.
-
-"The violin first!" she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and
-through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it
-in shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then she
-stole out, with this net on her back, "like a true Indian woman as I
-am," she said, almost gayly, to herself,--through the court-yard, around
-the southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows,
-where she laid down her load, and went back for the second.
-
-This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold
-meat. She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's
-possessions as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made
-several journeys to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her
-store. Wine, luckily, she found in the dining-room,--two full bottles;
-also milk, which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall
-in the veranda.
-
-Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's
-breathing. "How can I go without bidding him good-by?" she said. "How
-can I?" and she stood irresolute.
-
-"Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He has done
-all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for
-him."
-
-Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light
-would hardly be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the
-dining-room, knelt on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and
-wrote:--
-
-"DEAR FELIPE,--Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him
-to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't
-know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love
-you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness.
-
-"RAMONA."
-
-It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into
-her room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house.
-From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she
-stretched out her arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just
-over Felipe's feet. There was a risk that the Senora would come out in
-the morning, before Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk
-she would take.
-
-"Farewell, dear Felipe!" she whispered, under her breath, as she turned
-from the window.
-
-The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the
-upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange
-going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came
-bounding down.
-
-"Holy Virgin, I am lost!" thought Ramona; but, crouching on the ground,
-she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a
-piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it, wagging his
-tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, she picked up her load
-again, and still fondling him, said, "Come on, Capitan!" It was her last
-chance. If he barked again, somebody would be waked; if he went by her
-side quietly, she might escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her
-forehead as she took her first step cautiously. The dog followed. She
-quickened her pace; he trotted along, still smelling the meat in the
-net. When she reached the willows, she halted, debating whether she
-should give him a large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was
-eating it, or whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided
-on the latter course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was
-safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the house; all was dark
-and still. She could hardly see its outline. A great wave of emotion
-swept over her. It was the only home she had ever known. All she
-had experienced of happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had been
-there,--Felipe, Father Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the
-garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in the
-chapel! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns in the chapel now? How
-Felipe would miss her, when he knelt before the altar! For fourteen
-years she had knelt by his side. And the Senora,--the hard, cold Senora!
-She would alone be glad. Everybody else would be sorry. "They will all
-be sorry I have gone,--all but the Senora! I wish it had been so that I
-could have bidden them all good-by, and had them all bid me good-by, and
-wish us good fortune!" thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a
-long sigh, and, turning her back on her home, went forward in the path
-she had chosen.
-
-She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. "Will you come with me,
-Capitan?" she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three
-short, sharp notes of delight. "Good Capitan, come! They will not
-miss him out of so many," she thought, "and it will always seem like
-something from home, as long as I have Capitan."
-
-When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing
-slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension
-at the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows
-at this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into
-the copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments
-more he thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this
-bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling
-along under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a
-collie as Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness.
-Presently he saw the figure halt,--drop part of its burden.
-
-"Alessandro!" came in a sweet, low call.
-
-He bounded like a deer, crying, "My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be
-you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!"
-
-Ramona laughed. "Do you remember the day you showed me how the Indian
-women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I did not think
-then I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, Alessandro. It
-isn't the weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have carried them much
-farther!"
-
-"Ah, you had no basket to cover the head," replied Alessandro, as he
-threw up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In
-doing so, he felt the violin-case.
-
-"Is it the violin?" he cried. "My blessed one, where did you get it?"
-
-"Off the table in Felipe's room," she answered. "I knew you would rather
-have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; it seemed
-nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to carry. Will
-it be too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can walk. And see,
-Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring him, to
-keep him still. Can't he go with us?"
-
-Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast,
-licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and
-affection.
-
-Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times
-heard him do this. It frightened her. "Why do you laugh, Alessandro?"
-she said.
-
-"To think what I have to show you, my Senorita," he said. "Look here;"
-and turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at
-the first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end
-of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he
-perceived Ramona.
-
-Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great.
-
-"Are you not glad, Senorita?" cried Alessandro, aghast. "Is it not your
-own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony
-can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I thought it would be joy
-to you to have Baba."
-
-"Oh, it is! it is!" sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. "It is
-a miracle,--a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!" she
-cried, for the first time observing that. "Alessandro," in an awe-struck
-whisper, "did the saints send him? Did you find him here?" It would have
-seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so.
-
-"I think the saints helped me to bring him," answered Alessandro,
-seriously, "or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near
-the corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at
-my word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, Senorita.
-It is no harm to take him?"
-
-"Oh, no!" answered Ramona. "He is more mine than anything else I had;
-for it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just stand on his
-legs; he was only two days old; and I have fed him out of my hand every
-day till now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we will never be parted,
-never!" and she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek
-against it lovingly.
-
-Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the
-saddle. "Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so
-heavy as my Senorita thought," he said. "It was the weight on the
-forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her
-pain."
-
-Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. "We must make all
-the speed we can, dearest Senorita," he said, "for a few hours. Then we
-will rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can hide safely
-all day. We will journey only by night, lest they pursue us."
-
-"They will not," said Ramona. "There is no danger. The Senora said she
-should do nothing. 'Nothing!'" she repeated, in a bitter tone. "That is
-what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help us. He would have
-liked to have you stay with us; but all he could get was, that she would
-do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. They will wish never to hear
-of me again. I mean, the Senora will wish never to hear of me. Felipe
-will be sorry. Felipe is very good, Alessandro."
-
-They were all ready now,--Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets swinging
-from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his tired
-pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but
-Ramona's heart was full of joy.
-
-"I don't know why it is, Alessandro," she said; "I should think I
-would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,--not the least; not of
-anything that can come, Alessandro," she reiterated with emphasis. "Is
-it not strange?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita," he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he
-walked close at her side. "It is strange. I am afraid,--afraid for you,
-my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the
-saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love
-you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people."
-
-"Are you never going to call me by my name?" asked Ramona. "I hate your
-calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she
-was displeased."
-
-"I will never speak the word again!" cried Alessandro. "The saints
-forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!"
-
-"Can't you say Ramona?" she asked.
-
-Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him
-difficult to say Ramona.
-
-"What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?" she
-continued. "The Indian name,--the name of the dove?"
-
-"Majel," he said. "It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you
-since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me,
-and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark;
-and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the
-wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in
-the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one mate always--" He stopped.
-
-"As I to you, Alessandro," said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and
-resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.
-
-Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his
-mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had
-ever before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close
-that he touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it
-had been anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it
-even now. But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she
-had stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder.
-Did that mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted
-accordingly; turning his head round to the right, and looking back to
-see what came of it.
-
-Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips
-together,--what could Baba think? As mischievously as if he had been
-a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore the lovers
-apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,--Alessandro running; the poor
-Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for
-many a day.
-
-"Majel is my name, then," said Ramona, "is it? It is a sweet sound, but
-I would like it better Majella. Call me Majella."
-
-"That will be good," replied Alessandro, "for the reason that never
-before had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to say
-Majella. I know not why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my
-tongue."
-
-"Because it was to be that you should call me Majella," said Ramona.
-"Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora
-called me by--and dear Felipe too," she added thoughtfully. "He would
-not know me by my new name. I would like to have him always call
-me Ramona. But for all the rest of the world I am Majella,
-now,--Alessandro's Majel!"
-
-
-
-
-XVI
-
-AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile,
-Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began
-turning him round and round in the road.
-
-"We will not go any farther in the road," he said, "but I must conceal
-our tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces." The obedient
-Baba backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the
-Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under
-Alessandro's skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and
-stood waiting further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was
-no trail to show where they had left the road.
-
-After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles,
-cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the
-tracks for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much
-bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro said: "I think now they
-will never discover where we left the road. They will ride along, seeing
-our tracks plain, and then they will be so sure that we would have kept
-straight on, that they will not notice for a time; and when they do,
-they will never be able to see where the trail ended. And now my Majella
-has a very hard ride before her. Will she be afraid?"
-
-"Afraid." laughed Ramona. "Afraid,--on Baba, and with you!"
-
-But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for
-the day in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to
-Temecula,--a trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in this
-canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit. Alessandro did not
-in the least share Ramona's confidence that no effort would be made to
-overtake them. To his mind, it appeared certain that the Senora would
-never accept the situation without making an attempt to recover at least
-the horse and the dog. "She can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen
-one of her horses," he thought to himself bitterly; "and everybody would
-believe her. Nobody would believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's
-own horse."
-
-The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it
-was in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had
-grown up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of
-thicket. Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot
-once from the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had
-found, to his surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this
-canon that he had brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona
-to arrange for the decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with
-them, growing almost in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so
-farther down, and to reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to
-let himself down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its head was little
-more than a rift in the rocks, and the stream which had its rise in
-it was only a trickling spring at the beginning. It was this precious
-water, as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided
-Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of
-granite would not have seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did
-this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly searching for a
-break in it. It appeared to Alessandro to have thickened and knit even
-since the last spring. At last they made their way down a small side
-canon,--a sort of wing to the main canon; a very few rods down this, and
-they were as hidden from view from above as if the earth had swallowed
-them. The first red tints of the dawn were coming. From the eastern
-horizon to the zenith, the whole sky was like a dappled crimson fleece.
-
-"Oh, what a lovely place." exclaimed Ramona. "I am sure this was not a
-hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?"
-
-Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. "How little does the
-wood-dove know of rough places!" he said. "This is only the beginning;
-hardly is it even the beginning."
-
-Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing
-from sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction.
-Returning at last, with a grave face, he said, "Will Majella let me
-leave her here for a little time? There is a way, but I can find it only
-on foot. I will not be gone long. I know it is near."
-
-Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing
-sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. "I must go, Majella," he
-said with emphasis. "We are in danger here."
-
-"Go! go! Alessandro," she cried. "But, oh, do not be long!"
-
-As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and
-snapping before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the
-world. Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her
-call. All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments
-seemed hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the
-sky, and the crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard
-Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy.
-
-"I have found the trail!" he exclaimed; "but we must climb up again out
-of this; and it is too light. I like it not."
-
-With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open
-again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close
-to the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way,
-suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but
-the boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them;
-still the little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted
-with displeasure as he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The
-thick-set, thorny branches smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they
-caught the nets swung on Baba's sides; presently these were held fast,
-and Baba began to rear and kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro
-dismounted, cut the strings, and put both the packages securely on the
-back of his own pony. "I will walk," he said. "It was only a little way
-longer I would have ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow."
-
-"Narrow," indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her
-eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,--a stony,
-crumbling path,--on the side of a precipice, down which the stones
-rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as they
-passed; at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. Only
-the yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to
-keep foothold on this precipice. Of these there were thousands; and
-their tall flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set thick with the
-shining, smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun.
-Below--hundreds of feet below--lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of
-chaparral, looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees
-lifted their heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain
-glistened the loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world,
-seen of but few human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these
-fugitives this day.
-
-Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first
-tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the
-horse was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now,
-they would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there
-was running water, clear as crystal, and cold,--almost colder than one
-could drink,--and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the
-horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain
-for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these
-thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes
-full of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been
-only on the smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so
-fearless, that he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she
-had dropped the reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and
-sitting unsteadily in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but
-she was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly
-that Baba, whose nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a
-stop that Ramona uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing.
-
-Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail
-was impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to
-ride. Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat.
-
-"Carita," he cried, "I was stupid not to have told you how narrow the
-way is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the
-ferns on my back I brought for you."
-
-"Oh, did you?" gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from her
-contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change of her
-thoughts than she could have been by anything else. "Did you? It is
-frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel as if I
-were on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my hands and
-knees, I think I would like it better. Could I?"
-
-"I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella," answered
-Alessandro, sorrowfully. "It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; I
-will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the whole
-band, for the sheep-shearing,--old Fernando on his horse all the way."
-
-"Really," said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, "I will try not to
-be so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?"
-
-"Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an
-hour yet before we stop."
-
-But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the
-bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only,
-as she looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had
-come,--little more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the
-rock,--she shuddered.
-
-Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when
-they arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did
-the sun fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an
-exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. "Yes," he said,
-"when I came here for the ferns, I wished to myself many times that you
-could see it. There is not in all this country so beautiful a place.
-This is our first home, my Majella," he added, in a tone almost solemn;
-and throwing his arms around her, he drew her to his breast, with the
-first feeling of joy he had experienced.
-
-"I wish we could live here always," cried Ramona.
-
-"Would Majella be content?" said Alessandro.
-
-"Very," she answered.
-
-He sighed. "There would not be land enough, to live here," he said.
-"If there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and
-never see the face of a white man again!" Already the instinct of the
-hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's
-blood. "But there would be no food. We could not live here." Ramona's
-exclamation had set Alessandro to thinking, however. "Would Majella be
-content to stay here three days now?" he asked. "There is grass enough
-for the horses for that time. We should be very safe here; and I fear
-very much we should not be safe on any road. I think, Majella, the
-Senora will send men after Baba."
-
-"Baba!" cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. "My own horse! She would not
-dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!" But even as
-she spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would dare anything; would
-misrepresent anything; only too well Ramona knew what the very mention
-of the phrase "horse-stealing" meant all through the country. She looked
-piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts.
-
-"Yes, that is it, Majella," he said. "If she sent men after Baba, there
-is no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for you to
-say he was yours. They would not believe you; and they might take me
-too, if the Senora had told them to, and put me into Ventura jail."
-
-"She's just wicked enough to do it!" cried Ramona. "Let us not stir out
-of this spot, Alessandro,--not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By
-that time she would have given over looking for us."
-
-"I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do not
-know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, now, to
-kill."
-
-"But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro," said Ramona, earnestly,
-"and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!" She was like
-a child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for
-the time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued.
-Pursuit of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the
-reclaiming of Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona
-thought of it, the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would
-be likely to commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly
-prevent it. It was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that
-it would be shameful to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay
-Ramona's hope.
-
-If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note
-to Felipe she had said that she supposed they were going to Father
-Salvierderra, it would have saved both her and Alessandro much
-disquietude. Alessandro would have known that men pursuing them, on that
-supposition, would have gone straight down the river road to the sea,
-and struck northward along the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to
-mention this; in fact, she hardly recollected it after the first day.
-Alessandro had explained to her his plan, which was to go by way of
-Temecula to San Diego, to be married there by Father Gaspara, the priest
-of that parish, and then go to the village or pueblo of San Pasquale,
-about fifteen miles northwest of San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's
-was the head man of this village, and had many times begged him to come
-there to live; but Alessandro had steadily refused, believing it to
-be his duty to remain at Temecula with his father. San Pasquale was
-a regularly established pueblo, founded by a number of the Indian
-neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of the breaking up
-of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the Governor of
-California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to it. A
-paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the Governor's
-own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of the
-pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority passed
-into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro had
-spoken.
-
-"Ysidro has that paper still," Alessandro said, "and he thinks it
-will keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are
-beginning to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not believe,
-Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years we can
-perhaps stay there. There are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley;
-it is much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people are much better off
-than ours were. They have splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large
-wheat-fields. Ysidro's house stands under a great fig-tree; they say it
-is the largest fig-tree in the country."
-
-"But, Alessandro," cried Ramona, "why do you think it is not safe there,
-if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right."
-
-"I don't know," replied Alessandro. "Perhaps it may be; but I have got
-the feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the Americans. I
-don't believe they will mind the paper."
-
-"They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers
-they took away," said Ramona, thoughtfully. "But Felipe said that was
-because Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to
-give away."
-
-"That's just it," said Alessandro. "Can't they say that same thing about
-any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the Senora
-couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all
-about the law, and can speak the American language, what chance is there
-for us? We can't take care of ourselves any better than the wild beasts
-can, my Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me? Why did I let you?"
-
-After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground,
-and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It
-was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought
-of danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and
-apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from
-the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and
-that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from
-her inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things
-Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was
-also largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of
-her soul,--qualities in her nature never yet tested; qualities of
-which she hardly knew so much as the name, but which were to bear her
-steadfast and buoyant through many sorrowful years.
-
-Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro
-had prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita
-and ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon.
-Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long;
-when it was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona
-seated herself on it, she exclaimed: "Now I shall see how it feels to
-lie and look up at the stars at night! Do you recollect, Alessandro,
-the night you put Felipe's bed on the veranda, when you told me how
-beautiful it was to lie at night out of doors and look up at the stars?"
-
-Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,--the first moment he had ever
-dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. "Yes, I remember it,
-my Majella," he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, "That was
-the day Juan Can had told me that your mother was of my people; and that
-was the night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps you might
-some day love me."
-
-"But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?" said Ramona, seeing that
-he spread no more boughs. "You have made yourself no bed."
-
-Alessandro laughed. "I need no bed," he said. "We think it is on our
-mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella.
-It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall not
-sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch."
-
-"Why, what are you afraid of?" asked Ramona.
-
-"It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella," he answered.
-"It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall
-feel safer to watch to-night."
-
-This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was,
-that he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him
-uneasiness. They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the
-tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the
-curl of smoke from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and
-keep it blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast
-return.
-
-"But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not
-strong," said Ramona, anxiously.
-
-"I am strong now, Majella," answered Alessandro. And indeed he did
-already look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety.
-"I am no longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch."
-
-"Will you lie on the fern-bed then?" asked Ramona, gleefully.
-
-"I would like the ground better," said honest Alessandro.
-
-Ramona looked disappointed. "That is very strange," she said. "It is
-not so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by
-lying on it," she continued, throwing herself down; "but oh, how sweet,
-how sweet it smells!"
-
-"Yes, there is spice-wood in it," he answered. "I put it in at the head,
-for Majella's pillow."
-
-Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept
-like a child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear
-the crackling of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of
-Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet
-him, made the canon echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard
-the stealthy steps of wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour
-she slept on. And hour after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge
-sycamore-trunk, and watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her
-face, he thought he had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of
-calm repose insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a
-saint, he thought; perhaps it was as a saint of help and guidance, the
-Virgin was sending her to him and his people. The darkness deepened,
-became blackness; only the red gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying
-rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black storm-clouds in the heavens.
-With the darkness, the stillness also deepened. Nothing broke that,
-except an occasional motion of Baba or the pony, or an alert signal from
-Capitan; then all seemed stiller than ever. Alessandro felt as if God
-himself were in the canon. Countless times in his life before he had
-lain in lonely places under the sky and watched the night through, but
-he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was
-to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and the next,
-all through the coming years? What was to come to this beloved and
-loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so trustful, guarded
-only by him,--by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive, homeless man?
-
-Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full
-of them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened
-sense; pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and
-replying, as did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he
-watched under the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,--"Love?" "Here!"
-"Love?" "Here!" They comforted him still more now. "They too have only
-each other," he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face.
-
-It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning
-twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the
-sycamores caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in
-the dusk. Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar
-sound of the linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her
-instantly. Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed,
-"Oh, is it morning already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than
-we! Sing, Alessandro," and she began the hymn:--
-
-"'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we
-too sing.'"
-
-Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot.
-
-"Sing not so loud, my Majel," whispered Alessandro, as her voice went
-carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. "There might be hunters near
-who would hear;" and he joined in with low and muffled tones.
-
-As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than
-before:--
-
-     "'Come, O sinners,
-     Come, and we will sing
-     Tender hymns
-     To our refuge,'"
-
-"Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!" said Alessandro. "My
-Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints." And indeed he might
-have been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in
-the shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall
-of fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in
-tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with
-devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of
-sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun
-she could not see.
-
-"Hush, my love," she breathed rather than said. "That would be a sin, if
-you really thought it.
-
-     'O beautiful Queen,
-     Princess of Heaven,'"
-
-she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking
-on her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost
-without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the
-morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory
-crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It
-had belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father
-Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to the "blessed child," Ramona,
-at her confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not
-have bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate
-heart it had always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father
-Salvierderra's love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted
-Peyri.
-
-As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the
-last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight
-shot into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern
-crest,--shot in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, lighted
-it; by a flash as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the beads,
-on Ramona's hands, and on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a
-flash, and it was gone! To both Ramona and Alessandro it came like an
-omen,--like a message straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better
-messenger,--she, the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven;
-mother of the Christ to whom they prayed, through her,--mother, for
-whose sake He would regard their least cry,--could she choose better
-messenger, or swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would
-help them in these sore straits.
-
-Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be
-found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled
-the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the
-wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary.
-
-
-
-
-XVII
-
-BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to
-Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter.
-Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more
-for man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to
-do, than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection,
-when by weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an
-interval, to her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of
-what he had called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of
-superiority, makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! "Whom the
-gods love, die young," has been too long carelessly said. It is not
-true, in the sense in which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell
-with nature; if they are ever lured away, return to her before they are
-old. Then, however long they live before they die, they die young. Whom
-the gods love, live young--forever.
-
-With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian,
-Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted
-look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they
-meant.
-
-"If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?"
-she said, in a tone of pleasure. "I see that yon tall yucca has gone in
-shadow sooner than it did yesterday."
-
-And, "What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not know
-there were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught us some names;
-but they were hard, and I forgot them, We might name them for ourselves,
-if we lived here. They would be our relations."
-
-And, "For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my Alessandro,
-and do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do
-nothing for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the while."
-
-And, "Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, Alessandro.
-It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy,
-but never too glad, I think, when he lives with nothing between him and
-the sky, and the saints can see him every minute."
-
-And, "I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the
-air, Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it
-because I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?"
-
-It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how
-full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent;
-it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable
-of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to
-say, and said less eloquently.
-
-After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, "You speak as the trees
-speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying
-anything!"
-
-This delighted Alessandro's very heart. "And you, Majella," he
-exclaimed; "when you say that, you speak in the language of our people;
-you are as we are."
-
-And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,--happier than she
-would have been made by any other praise or fondness.
-
-Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle.
-The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was
-already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who
-wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to
-all but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him
-away from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and
-summoned magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their
-command. Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off;
-but as she vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,--a
-magic golden apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other
-food. Day after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple;
-and yet, morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the
-golden fruit, still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it;
-and when the Fairy came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic
-boat, sailed away with her, and never was seen in his kingdom again. It
-was only an allegory, this legend,--a beautiful allegory, and true,--of
-love and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now
-growing strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and
-just as strength-giving.
-
-"My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?" said Ramona,
-studying his countenance with loving care. "I thought that night you
-would die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your eyes shine, and your
-hand is not hot! It is the blessed air; it has cured you, as it cured
-Felipe of the fever."
-
-"If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella," replied
-Alessandro. "I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw
-you. It is not the air;" and he looked at her with a gaze that said the
-rest.
-
-At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up
-Baba, saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon
-Alessandro had said to her: "To-night, Majella, we must go. There is not
-grass enough for another day. We must go while the horses are strong. I
-dare not lead them any farther down the canon to graze, for there is
-a ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one of the man's cows
-feeding near Baba."
-
-Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the
-look on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled
-afresh in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and
-saw Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were
-again carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again
-the sense of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an
-unbearable burden on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his
-Majella?
-
-But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in
-such gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly
-rollicking with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan,
-too, was gay. He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing
-shade and cool water. He longed for sheep. He did not understand this
-inactivity. The puzzled look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than
-once, as he would come and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing
-his eyes intently on her face, as if he said in so many words, "What
-in the world are you about in this canon, and do not you ever intend to
-return home? Or if you will stay here, why not keep sheep? Do you not
-see that I have nothing to do?"
-
-"We must ride all night, Majella," said Alessandro, "and lose no time.
-It is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow."
-
-"Is it a canon?" asked Ramona, hopefully.
-
-"No," he replied, "not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It
-is where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high
-hill."
-
-"Will it be safe there?" she asked.
-
-"I think so," he replied; "though not so safe as here. There is no such
-place as this in all the country."
-
-"And then where shall we go next?" she asked.
-
-"That is very near Temecula," he said. "We must go into Temecula, dear
-Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me
-money for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I would never go
-near the place again."
-
-"I would like to see it, Alessandro," she said gently.
-
-"Oh, no, no, Majella!" he cried; "you would not. It is terrible; the
-houses all unroofed,--all but my father's and Jose's. They were
-shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only walls.
-Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old woman ever
-had the strength; they said she was like a fury. She said nobody should
-ever live in those walls again; and she took a pole, and made a great
-hole in one side, and then she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all
-her might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be dreadful."
-
-"Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?" she said
-timidly.
-
-"The saints forbid!" he said solemnly. "I think it would make me a
-murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I
-should kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of it!" he
-added, after a moment's silence; "it takes the strength all out of my
-blood again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!"
-
-And the word "Temecula" was not mentioned between them again until dusk
-the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along between low, wooded
-hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a green, marshy place, with
-a little thread of trickling water, at which their horses stopped, and
-drank thirstily; and Ramona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the
-distance. "Lights, Alessandro, lights!" she exclaimed, pointing to them.
-
-"Yes, Majella," he replied, "it is Temecula," and springing off his pony
-he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: "I have
-been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be done here. I
-do not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If men have been sent
-out to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is the place where
-everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare not have you go there, Majella;
-yet I must go. The only way I can get any money is from Mr. Hartsel."
-
-"I must wait somewhere while you go!" said Ramona, her heart beating as
-she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as
-the sea. "That is the only safe thing, Alessandro."
-
-"I think so too," he said; "but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not
-you be afraid?"
-
-"Yes," she replied, "I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the
-other."
-
-"If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to you,
-Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe home,--he and
-Capitan."
-
-Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility.
-Alessandro had thought of everything. "What could happen?" she cried.
-
-"I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the
-horse," he said.
-
-"But you would not have the horse with you," she said. "How could they
-take you?"
-
-"That mightn't make any difference," replied Alessandro. "They might
-take me, to make me tell where the horse was."
-
-"Oh, Alessandro," sobbed Ramona, "what shall we do!" Then in another
-second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, "Alessandro, I know what
-I will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I
-not be safest there?"
-
-"Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?" exclaimed Alessandro.
-
-"Why not?" she said. "It is not the dead that will harm us. They would
-all help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there while you
-go; and if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr. Hartsel's
-after you. If there are men of the Senora's there, they will know me;
-they will not dare to touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish
-them. I will not be afraid. And if they are ordered to take Baba, they
-can have him; we can walk when the pony is tired."
-
-Her confidence was contagious. "My wood-dove has in her breast the heart
-of the lion," said Alessandro, fondly. "We will do as she says. She
-is wise;" and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of the
-graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, with one small gate
-of wooden paling. As they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, "The thieves
-have taken the gate!"
-
-"What could they have wanted with that?" said Ramona
-
-"To burn," he said doggedly, "It was wood; but it was very little. They
-might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!"
-
-As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the
-graves. Ramona started.
-
-"Fear nothing," whispered Alessandro. "It must be one of our people. I
-am glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was
-the corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her;" and leaving
-Ramona at the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in
-the Luiseno language, "Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I,
-Alessandro!"
-
-It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was
-spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her
-husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the
-Americans were there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her,
-Alessandro returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side,
-he laid her feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: "Majella, I have told
-her all. She cannot speak a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she
-says, that you have come with me, and she will stay close by your side
-till I come back."
-
-Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all
-she could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she
-could see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less
-needful to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona
-was pitying her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her
-from the saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face.
-Again she drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to
-the corner from which she had come. Ramona understood. "She wants to
-show me her husband's grave," she thought. "She does not like to be away
-from it. I will go with her."
-
-Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head
-assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed
-her. The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked
-by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew
-each inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly
-fell, and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities
-under his feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled
-earth of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona
-to the edge of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both
-hands on her heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into
-weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast,
-to show her sympathy. Carmena did not weep. She was long past that;
-and she felt for the moment lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden
-sympathy of this stranger,--this girl like herself, yet so different,
-so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena was sure she must be. Had the saints
-sent her from heaven to Alessandro? What did it mean? Carmena's bosom
-was heaving with the things she longed to say and to ask; but all she
-could do was to press Ramona's hand again and again, and occasionally
-lay her soft cheek upon it.
-
-"Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the
-graveyard?" thought Ramona. "What a comfort to this poor heart-broken
-thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all fear. Holy Virgin!
-but I had died of terror here all alone. Not that the dead would harm
-me; but simply from the vast, silent plain, and the gloom."
-
-Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate.
-Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect
-to find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting
-for Alessandro to come.
-
-After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a
-quick run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the
-graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near,
-he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. "A light in our
-house!" he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. "Those cursed robbers
-have gone into it to live already!" His blood seemed turning to fire.
-Ramona would not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was
-full of implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It
-was gone. His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the
-wall. Ah! in the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for
-him. Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one
-hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who were these
-dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see their faces
-burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But
-he must. He would see the new home-life already begun on the grave of
-his. Stealthily creeping under the window from which the light shone, he
-listened. He heard children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the
-voice of a man, gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was
-evidently the supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were
-on a level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in.
-
-A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it
-a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby,
-sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for
-its supper. The room was in great confusion,--beds made on the floor,
-open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in the
-corners; evidently there were new-comers into the house. The window
-was open by an inch. It had warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly
-Alessandro recollected how he had put off from day to day the planing
-of that window to make it shut tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could
-hear all that was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a
-sensitive one, and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance
-of a brute,--of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute
-creation, making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which
-never one of them possessed?
-
-"It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!" said the
-woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of
-what she said. He listened eagerly. "When will the next wagon get here?"
-
-"I don't know," growled her husband. "There's been a slide in that
-cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days
-yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's
-here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got
-everything."
-
-"But, John," she replied, "I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to
-put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything."
-
-"You can grumble, I take notice," he answered. "That's about all you
-women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead
-in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of
-Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!"
-
-The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment.
-Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she
-exclaimed, "Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take
-their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know,
-if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this
-way!"
-
-"Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!" cried the man.
-He was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at
-him half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the children,
-began feeding the baby. At that second the other child looked up, and
-catching sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, cried out, "There's
-a man there! There, at the window!"
-
-Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had
-he imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to
-this mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With
-a fearful oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, "One of those damned
-Indians, I expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day. We'll have to
-shoot two or three of 'em yet, before we're rid of 'em!" and he took his
-gun down from the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it
-in his hand.
-
-"Oh, don't fire, father, don't." cried the woman. "They'll come and
-murder us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!" and she pulled him
-back by the sleeve.
-
-Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and
-stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat
-like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would
-have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him.
-
-"I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father," persisted the
-woman. "Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody
-there. Come in; supper's gettin' all cold."
-
-"Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round
-here," said the fiend. "If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't
-know what hurt him;" and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken,
-unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away harmlessly into
-the empty darkness. Hearkening a few moments, and hearing no cry, he
-hiccuped, "Mi-i-issed him that time," and went in to his supper.
-
-Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own
-folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of
-waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that
-desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,--sliding
-along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the
-house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full
-speed for Hartsel's.
-
-Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere
-except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it
-gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region.
-Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank
-at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind
-within a radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its
-kind within a much wider radius.
-
-Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow--when he was sober; but as that
-condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he sometimes came
-near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody was afraid
-of him,--wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. "It was only a
-question of time and occasion," they said, "Hartsel's killing somebody
-sooner or later;" and it looked as if the time were drawing near
-fast. But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful;
-entertaining, too, to a degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his
-chair till small hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk.
-How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have
-told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and phases
-of the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. Here, in
-this Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the country. He liked
-the wild life, and, for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good word
-he spoke for them to travellers who believed no good of the race, and
-evidently listened with polite incredulity when he would say, as he
-often did: "I've never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do all
-their trading with me. There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred
-dollars. If they can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die,
-their relations will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till
-they've got it all paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer,
-maybe, or baskets or mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're
-honester 'n the general run of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans
-that are as poor's they are."
-
-Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still
-lower flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the
-kitchen, and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough
-planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which was one great
-dormitory well provided with beds on the floor, but with no other
-article of bedroom furniture. They who slept in this loft had no
-fastidious standards of personal luxury. These two buildings, with some
-half-dozen out-houses of one sort and another, stood in an enclosure
-surrounded by a low white picket fence, which gave to the place a
-certain home-like look, spite of the neglected condition of the ground,
-which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with weeds and wild grass. A few
-plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots and tin cans around the
-door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew whether they made the place
-look less desolate or more so. But they were token of a woman's
-hand, and of a nature which craved something more than the unredeemed
-wilderness around her afforded.
-
-A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the
-store. Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and
-he heard loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around
-to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened
-the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but
-Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one
-dim candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and
-frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the
-men who were noisily rollicking in the other house.
-
-Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs.
-Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to
-find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not
-recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in
-his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the
-place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying,
-and anything else he could do.
-
-"Run, Ramon," she said, "and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so
-dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all
-these men to cook for;" then turning to the table, she began cutting
-her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who
-silently rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later,
-Alessandro re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would
-have cost poor old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing
-it down, on the hearth, said, "Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?"
-she gave a scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. "Why, who--" she
-began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she
-continued, "Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old
-Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga."
-
-"In Pachanga!" Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to
-Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart
-felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had
-dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and
-he did not raise his eyes as he replied; "I have been in Pachanga. My
-father is dead. I have buried him there."
-
-"Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?" cried the kindly woman, coming closer to
-Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I heard he was sick."
-She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the
-time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two
-days she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that
-she need not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words.
-She was a Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood
-ran in her veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever
-probable now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his
-shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered!
-How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb
-bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring!
-
-"You were away all summer, Alessandro?" she said at last, turning back
-to her work.
-
-"Yes," he said: "at the Senora Moreno's."
-
-"So I heard," she said. "That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her
-son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here
-with a drove of sheep once."
-
-"Ay, he is a man now," said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands
-again.
-
-"Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak," thought Mrs.
-Hartsel. "I'll just let him alone;" and she spoke no more for some
-moments.
-
-Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized
-him; at last he said wearily: "I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr.
-Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store."
-
-"Yes," she said, "a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the company
-that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two days. Oh,
-Alessandro," she continued, bethinking herself, "Jim's got your violin
-here; Jose brought it."
-
-"Yes, I know it," answered Alessandro. "Jose told me; and that was one
-thing I stopped for."
-
-"I'll run and get it," she exclaimed.
-
-"No," said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. "I do not want it. I
-thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not mine; it
-was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My father said it
-would bring a great deal of money. It is very old."
-
-"Indeed it is," she replied; "one of those men in there was looking at
-it last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe Jim
-when he told him about its having come from the Mission."
-
-"Does he play? Will he buy it?" cried Alessandro.
-
-"I don't know; I'll call Jim," she said; and running out she looked in
-at the other door, saying, "Jim! Jim!"
-
-Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face,
-her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance.
-Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises,
-"Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning."
-
-"Till morning!" A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. "I
-can't!" he cried. "I must go on to-night."
-
-"Why, what for?" exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief
-second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything
-to her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and
-Ramona's, the better.
-
-"I must be in San Diego to-morrow," he said.
-
-"Got work there?" she said.
-
-"Yes; that is, in San Pasquale," he said; "and I ought to have been
-there three days ago."
-
-Mrs. Hartsel mused. "Jim can't do anything to-night," she said; "that's
-certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it."
-
-Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him.
-He could not face one of these Americans who were "coming in" to his
-valley. Mrs. Hartsel understood.
-
-"I'll tell you, Alessandro," said the kindly woman, "I'll give you what
-money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell the violin
-to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back out of that, and
-when you're along this way again you can have the rest. Jim'll make as
-good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good friend to all of you,
-Alessandro, when he's himself."
-
-"I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man
-in this country," said Alessandro. "He's about the only white man I do
-trust!"
-
-Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat.
-Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. "Humph! Got more'n I thought
-I had," she said. "I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I
-knew Jim'd be drunk before night."
-
-Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance
-of those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs.
-Hartsel counted them out on the table,--one, two, three, four, bright
-five-dollar pieces.
-
-"That is as much as I dare take," said Alessandro, when she put down
-the fourth. "Will you trust me for so much?" he added sadly. "You know I
-have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some
-work to do."
-
-The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. "It's a shame!" she said,--"a
-shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, since it
-happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? Yes, indeed.
-Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of our lives."
-
-"I'm glad he is dead," said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into
-his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. "But he was murdered, Mrs.
-Hartsel,--murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into
-him."
-
-"That's true." she exclaimed vehemently. "I say so too; and so was Jose.
-That's just what I said at the time,--that bullets would not be half so
-inhuman!"
-
-The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room
-burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling,
-laughing, reeling into the kitchen.
-
-"Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian
-here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!" stammered Jim, making a lurch
-towards the stove. The men behind caught him and saved him. Eyeing the
-group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her
-body, said: "Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will
-bring in your supper immediately. It is all ready."
-
-One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back
-into the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the
-table and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs.
-
-"Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro," whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as
-she passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and
-contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. "You'd better go. There's no knowing
-what they'll do next."
-
-"Are you not afraid?" he said in a low tone.
-
-"No!" she said. "I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's
-round somewhere,--he and the bull-pups; if worse comes to worse, I can
-call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are always the worst to get
-drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!"
-
-"And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father,
-and Jose, and Carmena's baby!" thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly
-back towards the graveyard. "And Father Salvierderra says, God is good.
-It must be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!"
-
-But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell
-long on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too
-loudly. Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted
-handkerchief, he thought: "Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will
-buy food for many days for my Majella and for Baba!"
-
-
-
-
-XVIII
-
-EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona
-would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the
-graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer,
-and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at
-Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her
-thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected
-upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have
-made. Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes
-which might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was
-sitting, helpless, in the midnight darkness,--Alessandro seized, tied,
-treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to
-terrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she would
-ride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if she
-would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word,
-but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's meaning, "I must go! It is too
-long! I cannot wait here!" Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, and
-said in the San Luiseno tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but which
-yet somehow conveyed Carmena's meaning, "O beloved lady, you must not
-go! Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He
-will come." The word "Alessandro" was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said,
-wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. It
-was strange how Ramona, who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid
-of nothing, so long as Alessandro was by her side, became timorous and
-wretched the instant he was lost to her sight. When she first heard his
-steps coming, she quivered with terror lest they might not be his. The
-next second she knew; and with a glad cry, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" she
-bounded to him, dropping Baba's reins.
-
-Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding
-the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words.
-"How she loves Alessandro!" thought the widowed Carmena. "Will they
-leave him alive to stay with her? It is better not to love!" But there
-was no bitter envy in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she
-went desolate. All of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro.
-They had looked forward to his being over them in his father's place.
-They knew his goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.
-
-"Majella, you tremble," said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around
-her. "You have feared! Yet you were not alone." He glanced at Carmena's
-motionless figure, standing by Baba.
-
-"No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!" replied Ramona;
-"and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one
-there?"
-
-"No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just
-come from Pachanga," he answered.
-
-"Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,"
-continued Ramona. "But she told me to wait."
-
-"She told you!" repeated Alessandro. "How did you understand her
-speech?"
-
-"I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?" replied Ramona. "She spoke
-in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not
-say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said,
-and you would soon come."
-
-Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. "Did you say that?" he asked.
-
-"Yes," answered Carmena.
-
-"You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words," he said
-delightedly. "She is one of us."
-
-"Yes," said Carmena, gravely, "she is one of us." Then, taking Ramona's
-hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire
-prophecy, "One of us, Alessandro! one of us!" And as she gazed after
-their retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the
-darkness, she repeated the words again to herself,--"One of us! one of
-us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!" and she crept back to her
-husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn.
-
-The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them
-directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting
-or being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to
-the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past
-the place where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and
-putting his hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of
-ruined walls. "This was Antonio's house, Majella," he whispered. "I wish
-every house in the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was
-right. The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella," he went
-on, his whisper growing thick with rage. "That was what kept me so long.
-I was looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I
-should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all
-dead!"
-
-An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. "Living in
-your house!" she said. "You saw them?"
-
-"Yes," he said; "the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the
-man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought
-they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired.
-That was what kept me so long."
-
-Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground.
-A few steps farther, and he tripped again. "There is something caught
-round his foot, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It keeps moving."
-
-Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, "It's a
-stake,--and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what--" The rest of
-his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run swiftly
-on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and there
-stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking
-under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's
-nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly
-a second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony,
-and striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled
-the black horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his
-voice: "My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed
-have helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a
-stake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will
-gallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this
-cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a
-trail they will never find!"
-
-Like the wind galloped Benito,--Alessandro half lying on his back,
-stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy:
-which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And
-neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their
-feet! This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers.
-Not in all the California herds could be found two superber horses
-than Benito and Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of
-Alessandro. Ramona was half terrified as she heard him still talking,
-talking to Benito. For an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito
-and Alessandro knew every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had
-descended into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined
-sharply to the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. "Can you
-follow, dearest Majella?" he cried.
-
-"Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?" she retorted,
-pressing on closely.
-
-But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he
-would have given Ramona trouble.
-
-"There is only a little, rough like this, dear," called Alessandro, as
-he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. "Good!" he
-cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. "Good! Majella! We have got the
-two best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight
-comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go
-together splendidly."
-
-After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of
-the canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from
-underbrush. "Now," said Alessandro, "I can go from here to San Diego by
-paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight."
-
-Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank
-it in with delight. "I taste salt in the air, Alessandro," she cried.
-
-"Yes, it is the sea," he said. "This canon leads straight to the sea. I
-wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it
-is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play;
-and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the
-green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like
-wine in one's head."
-
-"Cannot we go there?" she said longingly. "Would it not be safe?"
-
-"I dare not," he answered regretfully. "Not now, Majella; for on the
-shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming."
-
-"Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and
-there is no danger?" she asked.
-
-"Yes, Majella," he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, "Will
-a time ever come when there will be no danger?"
-
-The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a
-succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down
-many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and
-rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little
-more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their
-mouths they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to
-a quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach
-before morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and
-commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he
-had found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he
-believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into
-San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale
-that same night. "All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,"
-he thought; "but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have
-been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore."
-
-It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been
-cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss
-filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As
-Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out
-to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her
-into a fairy-land.
-
-"What a beautiful world!" she cried; and riding up so close to Benito
-that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: "Do you
-not think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful
-world as this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?"
-
-Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was
-not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward
-from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the
-light-house on the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few
-moments more it would be day. "No, Majella, not here." he said. "We must
-not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this
-upper coast-line as far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees
-with all the speed we can make."
-
-It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the
-shelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still
-remained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the
-long drought,--a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with
-relish in each other's company.
-
-"They like each other, those two," said Ramona, laughing, as she watched
-them. "They will be friends."
-
-"Ay," said Alessandro, also smiling. "Horses are friends, like men, and
-can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's
-mare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her;
-and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a
-time I have laughed to see it."
-
-"Know you the priest at San Diego?" asked Ramona.
-
-"Not well," replied Alessandro. "He came seldom to Temecula when I was
-there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from
-San Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in
-great terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there
-would not have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent
-all his people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but
-he would have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy.
-It was no use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst
-thing, my Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can
-we do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never
-been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the
-San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the
-starving poor."
-
-"A priest!" ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.
-
-"Ay! a priest!" replied Alessandro. "They are not all good,--not like
-Father Salvierderra."
-
-"Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!" exclaimed
-Ramona, involuntarily.
-
-Alessandro looked distressed. "It would have been much more danger,
-Majella," he said, "and I had no knowledge of work I could do there."
-
-His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one
-feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. "Oh, this is
-much better, really," she said. "I did not mean what I said. It is only
-because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will
-tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?"
-
-"There is a Santa Inez Indian I know," replied Alessandro, "who comes
-down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes
-to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa
-Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's
-house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is
-always begging me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not
-two days from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara."
-
-"I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro," sighed Ramona, "when
-the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would
-be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like
-palaces, and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them;
-thousands and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful."
-
-"The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions," replied
-Alessandro. "My father says that at some of them were dreadful things,
-when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father
-Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they
-would all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it.
-And when he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken,
-and the Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you
-and I have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen
-up to keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for
-Mexico, and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over
-this same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and
-my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with
-him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my
-father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things
-of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told me the
-story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed
-out to the ship in a little boat; and not much more than on board was
-he, my father standing like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved
-him so, when, lo! he heard a great crying, and shouting, and trampling
-of horses' feet, and there came galloping down to the water's edge three
-hundred of the Indians from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the
-Father had gone to San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night
-on his track, to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship,
-and told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring
-the very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, and
-swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on board and go
-with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, blessing them, and
-saying farewell, with the tears running on his face; and one of the
-Indians--how they never knew--made shift to climb up on the chains
-and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they let him stay, and
-he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he was all his life
-sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same thing; but he
-was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so unhappy at the
-Father's going."
-
-"Was it here, in this very harbor?" asked Ramona, in breathless
-interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a
-broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.
-
-"Ay, just there he sailed,--as that ship goes now," he exclaimed, as a
-white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. "But the ship
-lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here.
-It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high
-lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they
-loved it."
-
-"But, Alessandro," continued Ramona, "were there really bad men at the
-other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?"
-
-"Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was
-too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has
-seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right
-that one man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel
-Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a
-whole band of them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains,
-he went after them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the
-pieces were strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to
-know them by again,--by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno,
-who came over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the
-Mission herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions;
-some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always
-had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they preferred,
-Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know
-anything; but do you not think they had the right?"
-
-"It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature," replied the
-pious Ramona. "That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason
-the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians
-listen. But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe
-it?"
-
-"The old woman laughed when she told it," he answered. "She said it was
-a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who
-tried to crop my ears that way."
-
-"Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?" asked Ramona.
-
-"No, Majella. It would not be polite," said Alessandro.
-
-"Well, I don't believe it," replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. "I don't
-believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things."
-
-The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out,
-and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to
-resume their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego,
-where Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San
-Luis Rey, and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it.
-
-But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they
-reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low
-adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio
-days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those
-occupied by the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite
-side of the way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,--a
-poverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed,
-decorated by a few coarse pictures and by broken sconces of
-looking-glass, rescued in their dilapidated condition from the
-Mission buildings, now gone utterly to ruin. In these had been put
-handle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap candles dimly lighted
-the room. Everything about it was in unison with the atmosphere of the
-place,--the most profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Here
-was the spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra,
-began his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the
-wilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this very
-beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, nursing
-the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, from the
-pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he baptized
-his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And the only
-traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes were a
-pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less than
-another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping of
-that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her
-graves.
-
-Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a
-Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been
-from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place.
-He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he
-could have been,--a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had made
-him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded the
-sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight or
-to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation.
-The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,--neither the look nor the
-tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and
-quick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his
-priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which
-had made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as
-he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds
-of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old,
-into the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in
-their shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after
-band, that he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the
-Government officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made
-equally bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them,
-from officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself
-to greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened,
-and indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic
-temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,--had said, "It is of no use;
-I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!" and settling down
-into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and Irish
-congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort to
-do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or twice
-a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were brought
-to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard,
-with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp than
-the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, he
-would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke
-by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor,
-brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress.
-
-A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine
-brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to
-see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San
-Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone
-this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it
-would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church on this site.
-Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to
-the demands of the living. To build a church on the ground where Father
-Junipero first trod and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic
-could be indifferent; but there were other and more pressing claims to
-be met first. This was right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only
-a few feet high, was a sore one to Father Gaspara,--a daily cross, which
-he did not find grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year
-in and year out, in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic
-climate.
-
-"Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!" exclaimed
-Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. "Father Gaspara must
-be there;" and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained
-window. "A marriage, Majella,--a marriage!" he cried, hastily returning.
-"This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long."
-
-When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had
-just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was
-waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard,
-where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom
-he hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had
-been neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The
-Father was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he
-regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the
-least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had
-never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who
-had supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked
-at the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first
-glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.
-
-"What is all this!" he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he
-exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, "Woman, are you an
-Indian?"
-
-"Yes, Father," answered Ramona, gently. "My mother was an Indian."
-
-"Ah! half-breed!" thought Father Gaspara. "It is strange how sometimes
-one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no
-common creature;" and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy
-on his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,--the other couple, a
-middle-aged Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing
-quietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly,
-impassive faces, as if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry.
-
-The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms,
-locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter
-reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's
-interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769,
-and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself.
-
-As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the
-Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other,
-Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, "Will you ride,
-dear? It is but a step."
-
-"No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk," she replied; and
-Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm,
-they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was
-still more puzzled.
-
-"He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady," he mused. "What does it
-mean? Who are they?"
-
-Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been
-used to associations far superior to any which he had known in his
-Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that
-with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in
-his parish. When they entered his house, he again regarded them both
-attentively. Ramona wore on her head the usual black shawl of the
-Mexican women. There was nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in
-her figure or face. In the dim light of the one candle,--Father Gaspara
-allowed himself no luxuries,--the exquisite coloring of her skin and the
-deep blue of her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure
-and dignified bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as
-fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke
-better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians.
-
-"Where are you from?" said the Father, as he held his pen poised in
-hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
-
-"Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro.
-
-Father Gaspara dropped his pen. "The village the Americans drove out the
-other day?" he cried.
-
-"Yes, Father."
-
-Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement,
-as usual, in pacing the floor. "Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all
-over," he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him
-their names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not
-knowing if all were ended or not. "A burning shame! The most dastardly
-thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken of God!" cried the Father.
-"I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then,
-coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: "The paper said
-that the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that
-the sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?"
-
-"Yes, Father," replied Alessandro.
-
-The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. "What are
-you going to do?" he said. "Where have you all gone? There were two
-hundred in your village the last time I was there."
-
-"Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied Alessandro, "some to San
-Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino."
-
-"Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!" stormed Father
-Gaspara.
-
-Alessandro did not understand the word "philosophy," but he knew what
-the Father meant. "Yes, Father," he said doggedly. "It is now twenty-one
-days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done."
-
-Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce,
-black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry
-invectives.
-
-"The United States Government will suffer for it!" he continued. "It is
-a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see;
-they will be visited with a curse,--a curse in their borders; their sons
-and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these vain
-words? My son, tell me your names again;" and he seated himself once
-more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open.
-
-After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. "And the woman's?"
-he said.
-
-Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply,
-"Majella." What name should he give more?
-
-Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, "Majella. Majella Phail
-is my name."
-
-She pronounced the word "Phail," slowly. It was new to her. She had
-never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to
-whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two
-syllables, and so wrote it.
-
-The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any
-one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the
-woman married under the name of "Majella Fayeel"?
-
-"No, no! Put up your money, son," said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro
-began to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied.
-"Put up your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would
-the Church had money to give you. Where are you going now?"
-
-"To San Pasquale, Father."
-
-"Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper," said
-Father Gaspara. "He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it
-may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a
-piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing."
-
-Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. "How is that, Father?"
-he said. "I do not know."
-
-"Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach," replied
-Father Gaspara; "and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motion
-also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked
-out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you
-and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell;
-but I myself am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son!
-Farewell, daughter!" he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again
-getting the better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down
-to his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but
-after supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they
-returned again, and lingered in his thoughts,--lingered strangely, it
-seemed to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was
-something unusual about the woman. "I shall hear of them again, some
-day," he thought. And he thought rightly.
-
-
-
-
-XIX
-
-AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly
-through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road,
-leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and
-they forded it without difficulty.
-
-"I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many
-days," said Alessandro; "but that was in spring."
-
-"Then it is well we came not at that time," said Ramona, "All the times
-have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,--the dark nights, and the
-streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!" and she
-pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the
-sky. "Not big enough to do us any harm, however," she added. "But, dear
-Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now?"
-
-"I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have been
-all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel
-that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should come there
-asking for us, she would understand, I think, and keep a still tongue.
-She would keep harm from us if she could."
-
-Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa,
-or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve
-miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow
-valley,--the Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of
-their few abortive efforts to repel the American forces.
-
-"Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans,
-Majella," said Alessandro. "I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked
-up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and
-thought if there should come another war against the Americans, I
-would fire them again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe think there is
-any likelihood that his people will rise against them any more? If they
-would, they would have all the Indians to help them, now. It would be a
-mercy if they might be driven out of the land, Majella."
-
-"Yes," sighed Majella. "But there is no hope. I have heard the Senora
-speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great
-riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they
-will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of
-their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for
-hate, Alessandro,--for hate, or in anger; never for gold."
-
-"Indians, also," replied Alessandro. "Never one Indian killed another,
-yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella,
-they are dogs!"
-
-Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage
-on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred
-which would never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him
-impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty.
-
-"They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro," said Ramona. "There
-must be some that are honest; do you not think so?"
-
-"Where are they, then," he cried fiercely,--"the ones who are good?
-Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in
-disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished them. If
-there are Americans who are good, who will not cheat and kill, why do
-they not send after these robbers and punish them? And how is it that
-they make laws which cheat? It was the American law which took Temecula
-away from us, and gave it to those men! The law was on the side of the
-thieves. No, Majella, it is a people that steals! That is their name,--a
-people that steals, and that kills for money. Is not that a good name
-for a great people to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea,
-they are so many?"
-
-"That is what the Senora says," answered Ramona. "She says they are all
-thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next will come
-more of them, with new laws, to take away more of her land. She had once
-more than twice what she has now, Alessandro."
-
-"Yes," he replied; "I know it. My father has told me. He was with Father
-Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his to
-the sea,--all that land we rode over the second night, Majella."
-
-"Yes," she said, "all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever
-saying: 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from San
-Pasquale, Alessandro?"
-
-"No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has
-hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it;
-and I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That is
-the way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will be a
-poor place for my Majella," he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at
-ease. Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear.
-
-"No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there,
-rather than the most beautiful place in the world where you are not,
-Alessandro," she said.
-
-"But my Majella loves things that are beautiful," said Alessandro. "She
-has lived like a queen."
-
-"Oh, Alessandro," merrily laughed Ramona, "how little you know of
-the way queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, only
-comfortable; and any house you will build, I can make as comfortable
-as that was; it is nothing but trouble to have one so large as the
-Senora's. Margarita used to be tired to death, sweeping all those
-rooms in which nobody lived except the blessed old San Luis Rey saints.
-Alessandro, if we could have had just one statue, either Saint Francis
-or the Madonna, to bring back to our house! That is what I would like
-better than all other things in the world. It is beautiful to sleep with
-the Madonna close to your bed. She speaks often to you in dreams."
-
-Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered
-these words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of
-some other sphere had come to dwell by his side. "I cannot find how to
-feel towards the saints as you do, my Majella," he said. "I am afraid of
-them. It must be because they love you, and do not love us. That is what
-I believe, Majella. I believe they are displeased with us, and no longer
-make mention of us in heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the
-saints were ever doing,--praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and
-Jesus. It is not possible, you see, that they could have been praying
-for us, and yet such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do
-not know how it is my people have displeased them."
-
-"I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of
-the saints, Alessandro," replied Ramona, earnestly. "He has often told
-me that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many times from
-being wretched because the Senora would not love me. And, Alessandro,"
-she went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, "even if nothing but
-misfortune comes to people, that does not prove that the saints do not
-love them; for when the saints were on earth themselves, look what they
-suffered: martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at what holy
-Saint Catharine endured, and the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what
-happens to us here in this world that we can tell if the saints love us,
-or if we will see the Blessed Virgin."
-
-"How can we tell, then?" he asked.
-
-"By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro," she replied; "just as I
-knew all the time, when you did not come,--I knew that you loved me.
-I knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter what
-happens. If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And you,--you
-will know that I love you, the same."
-
-"Yes," said Alessandro, reflectively, "that is true. But, Majella, it is
-not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a person
-that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand."
-
-"No, not quite," said Ramona; "not quite, about a saint; but one can
-for the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my
-room at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I was little
-I have told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan what I should
-bring away with us. She reminded me of many things I had forgotten,
-except for her."
-
-"Did you hear her speak?" said Alessandro, awe-stricken.
-
-"Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words," replied Ramona,
-confidently. "You see when you sleep in the room with her, it is very
-different from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh, I could
-never be very unhappy with her in my room!"
-
-"I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella," cried Alessandro,
-with sacrilegious warmth.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Ramona, "never speak such a word. You would be
-struck dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the thought was a
-sin."
-
-"There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house," said
-Alessandro. "It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of
-it,--if it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things
-to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look."
-
-"Again!" cried Ramona. "What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will
-not leave me, Alessandro?"
-
-At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always
-vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed
-from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were
-on wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child,
-crying out in alarm, and clinging to the hand.
-
-"After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I must
-go, to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. There is the
-raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my father. Majella
-will like to lie on that. My father believed it had great virtue."
-
-"Like that you made for Felipe?" she asked.
-
-"Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so
-large as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There
-are chairs, too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine
-as those on your veranda at home. They were given to my father. And
-music-books,--beautiful parchment books! Oh, I hope those are not lost,
-Majella! If Jose had lived, he would have looked after it all. But in
-the confusion, all the things belonging to the village were thrown into
-wagons together, and no one knew where anything was. But all the people
-knew my father's chairs and the books of the music. If the Americans did
-not steal them, everything will be safe. My people do not steal.
-There was never but one thief in our village, and my father had him so
-whipped, he ran away and never came back. I heard he was living in San
-Jacinto, and was a thief yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think
-if it is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will take it out,
-Majella."
-
-"Like the Americans," she said, half laughing, but with tears in the
-voice. "Whipping would not cure them."
-
-It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of
-the hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two
-such crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the
-three valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of
-contour than any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges
-of high mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was
-overcast and gray.
-
-"If it were spring, this would mean rain," said Alessandro; "but it
-cannot rain, I think, now."
-
-"No!" laughed Ramona, "not till we get our house done. Will it be of
-adobe, Alessandro?"
-
-"Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are
-very comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build one of
-adobe."
-
-"Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not
-let you, Alessandro, build another."
-
-Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower
-temperament and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she
-were all of a sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside
-the pale of human life,--outside and above it.
-
-"You speak as the birds sing, my Majella," he said slowly. "It was well
-to name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you
-have. She says only that she loves and waits."
-
-"I say that, too, Alessandro!" replied Ramona, reaching out both her
-arms towards him.
-
-The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and
-Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side;
-and Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of
-the sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice,
-and answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop
-when his mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped
-now, and it was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again.
-
-"Majella! Majella!" cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in
-his, he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, "if the
-saints would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like
-those she was telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved her!
-But what can Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella gives all;
-Alessandro gives nothing!" and he bowed his forehead on her hands,
-before he put them back gently on Baba's neck.
-
-Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this
-distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? "Alessandro can
-do one thing," she said, insensibly falling into his mode of
-speaking,--"one thing for his Majella: never, never say that he has
-nothing to give her. When he says that, he makes Majella a liar; for
-she has said that he is all the world to her,--he himself all the world
-which she desires. Is Majella a liar?"
-
-But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half
-anguish, that Alessandro replied: "Majella cannot lie. Majella is like
-the saints. Alessandro is hers."
-
-When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The
-vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat
-baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning
-these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating
-the yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women
-were sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in
-the village now; two large bands were away at work,--one at the autumn
-sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San
-Bernardino.
-
-In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or
-of cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men
-were ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles
-of the tule reeds.
-
-"These are some of the Temecula people," said Alessandro; "they
-are building themselves new houses here. See those piles of bundles
-darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought
-from Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!" he cried joyfully, as a man,
-well-mounted, who had been riding from point to point in the village,
-came galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he
-flung himself from his horse. Alessandro did the same, and both running
-swiftly towards each other till they met, they embraced silently.
-Ramona, riding up, held out her hand, saying, as she did so, "Ysidro?"
-
-Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro
-saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, "Who
-is this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?"
-
-"My wife!" answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. "We were married
-last night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora
-Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have land for me, as you
-have said."
-
-What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and
-courteous welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, "It
-is well. There is room. You are welcome." But when he heard the soft
-Spanish syllables in which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro,
-translating her words to him, said, "Majel speaks only in the Spanish
-tongue, but she will learn ours," a look of disquiet passed over his
-countenance. His heart feared for Alessandro, and he said, "Is she,
-then, not Indian? Whence got she the name of Majel?"
-
-A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. "Indian on
-the mother's side!" said Alessandro, "and she belongs in heart to our
-people. She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of the Virgin,
-Ysidro. She will help us. The name Majel I have given her, for she is
-like the wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her old name down forever, to
-bear this new name in our tongue."
-
-And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,--this and her
-smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children were not
-afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at sight of her
-noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality they associated
-only with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, what was more,
-saw by her every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If
-Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Ramona would have been
-profoundly impressed and touched, could she have heard them speaking
-among themselves about her; wondering how it had come about that she,
-so beautiful, and nurtured in the Moreno house, of which they all knew,
-should be Alessandro's loving wife. It must be, they thought in their
-simplicity, that the saints had sent it as an omen of good to the Indian
-people. Toward night they came, bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged
-woman in the village to look at her. She wished to see the beautiful
-stranger before the sun went down, they said, because she was now so old
-she believed each night that before morning her time would come to die.
-They also wished to hear the old woman's verdict on her. When Alessandro
-saw them coming, he understood, and made haste to explain it to Ramona.
-While he was yet speaking, the procession arrived, and the aged woman in
-her strange litter was placed silently on the ground in front of Ramona,
-who was sitting under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had borne her
-withdrew, and seated themselves a few paces off. Alessandro spoke
-first. In a few words he told the old woman of Ramona's birth, of their
-marriage, and of her new name of adoption; then he said, "Take her hand,
-dear Majella, if you feel no fear."
-
-There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand
-outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender
-reverence: "Say to her for me, Alessandro," she said, "that I bow down
-to her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is the will of
-God that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be worthy of such
-reverence as these people all feel for her."
-
-Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this
-speech, so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur
-of pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made
-no reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her
-hand.
-
-"Tell her," continued Ramona, "that I ask if there is anything I can do
-for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me."
-
-"It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,"
-thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue.
-
-Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. "And say
-that you will be her son," added Ramona.
-
-Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had
-waited. Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: "It is well; I am
-your mother. The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall
-dance when you come. The daughter looks on her mother's face each day. I
-will go;" and making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried
-to her house.
-
-The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people
-seemed to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not
-herself sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so
-moved,--to know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among
-primitive peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and
-grandly dramatic; but she was none the less stirred by them, because she
-could not analyze or explain them.
-
-"I will go and see her every day," she said; "she shall be like my
-mother, whom I never saw."
-
-"We must both go each day," said Alessandro. "What we have said is a
-solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it."
-
-Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising
-ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule
-reeds and one of adobe,--the latter a comfortable little house of two
-rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale.
-The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near
-throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs
-shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was
-fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with
-adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes
-a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses,
-were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle
-weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor
-granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona
-thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw.
-
-"Are they hard to make?" she asked. "Can you make them, Alessandro? I
-shall want many."
-
-"All you want, my Majella," replied Alessandro. "We will go together to
-get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. It is only
-two days to make a large one."
-
-"No. Do not buy one," she exclaimed. "I wish everything in our house
-to be made by ourselves." In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously
-striking one of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of
-existence.
-
-The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky
-chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having
-gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work;
-this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own
-should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses
-joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy
-Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove.
-It looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: "Can
-Majella live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long;
-there are adobes already made."
-
-His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, "I think it will be
-very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in
-the dove-cote!"
-
-"Majel!" exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said.
-
-Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on
-a cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once
-belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, "1790," on
-its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had
-come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence.
-
-"Think, Alessandro," she said; "this bell, no doubt, has rung many times
-for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to
-the village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. It will be
-like a saint's statue in the house."
-
-With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues,
-Alessandro's desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing;
-but he revolved it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his
-shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old
-Mission buildings a dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion.
-The San Fernando church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church
-properties as were left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not
-over-careful, and not in the least devout. It would not trouble him to
-part with a saint or two, Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to
-the saint either; on the contrary, the greatest of reverence, since
-the statue was to be taken from a place where no one cared for it, and
-brought into one where it would be tenderly cherished, and worshipped
-every day. If only San Fernando were not so far away, and the wooden
-saints so heavy! However, it should come about yet. Majella should
-have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should keep Alessandro from
-procuring for his Majel the few things that lay within his power. But he
-held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she did not know
-it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and secretly as if he had
-come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes would dilate, if
-she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her bedside; and how sure
-she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,--his dear, devout
-Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more credulous
-than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he, untaught,
-had learned, in his solitude with nature.
-
-Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a
-piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled
-him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor.
-
-"You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred
-sheep?" said Ysidro.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro, "you do not mean that! How is that?
-They told me all our stock was taken by the Americans."
-
-"Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula," replied Ysidro; "but in the
-spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for him up
-into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula pasture would
-fall short, and the people there, who could not leave, must have their
-cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,--I think, near fifty head;
-and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of
-sheep,--a hundred, Ramon said; he herded them with ours all summer, and
-he left a man up there with them. They will be down next week. It is
-time they were sheared."
-
-Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like
-a deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the
-little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He
-was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out
-a blessing. "What are a handful of sheep to her!" he thought.
-
-Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. "Majella!
-my Majella! There are cattle--and sheep," he cried. "The saints be
-praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said."
-
-"I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro," replied
-Ramona, gently.
-
-"You do not wonder! You do not ask!" he cried, astonished at her calm.
-"Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the
-skies?"
-
-"Nay, not as our eyes would see," she answered; "but the holy ones who
-live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. Whence came
-these cattle, and how are they ours?"
-
-When he told her, her face grew solemn. "Do you remember that night in
-the willows," she said, "when I was like one dying, because you would
-not bring me with you? You had no faith that there would be food. And
-I told you then that the saints never forsook those who loved them, and
-that God would give food. And even at that moment, when you did not know
-it, there were your cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains,
-in the keeping of God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?" and she
-threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
-
-"It is true," said Alessandro. "I will believe, after this, that the
-saints love my Majella."
-
-But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself:
-"Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said about the
-saints, if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of
-food? It is only for her that the saints pray. They are displeased with
-my people."
-
-
-
-
-XX
-
-ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and
-vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having
-been beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood
-on the south side of the valley,--too far, Ramona felt, from the blessed
-bell; but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields any nearer,
-and she could see the chapel, and the posts, and, on a clear day, the
-bell itself. The house was small. "Small to hold so much joy," she said,
-when Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, "It is
-small, Majella,--too small;" and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke,
-the size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. "Too small," he
-repeated.
-
-"Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro," she laughed; "but quite
-large enough to hold two persons."
-
-It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had
-arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as
-she looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs
-and the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the
-statuette of the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the
-wall, between the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep
-enough to hold small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept
-constantly growing there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and
-re-wreathed the niche till it looked like a bower. Below it hung her
-gold rosary and the ivory Christ; and many a woman of the village, when
-she came to see Ramona, asked permission to go into the bedroom and say
-her prayers there; so that it finally came to be a sort of shrine for
-the whole village.
-
-A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the
-little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She
-could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch.
-But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them,
-and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they
-would not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They
-lived in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees
-for them. "In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will
-come," Alessandro said.
-
-With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part
-of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming
-implements,--a good wagon and harnesses, and a plough. Baba and Benito,
-at first restive and indignant, soon made up their minds to work. Ramona
-had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked to a brother. In
-fact, except for Ramona's help, it would have been a question whether
-even Alessandro could have made Baba work in harness. "Good Baba!"
-Ramona said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his
-neck,--"Good Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and
-you are so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?" and with one hand in his
-mane, and her cheek, every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up
-and down the first furrows he ploughed.
-
-"My Senorita!" thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in
-pride, as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he watched
-her laughing face and blowing hair,--"my Senorita!"
-
-But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There
-was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro
-had made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great
-outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and
-lifted from the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,--in
-this cradle, on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white homespun
-blankets, lay Ramona's baby, six months old, lusty, strong, and
-beautiful, as only children born of great love and under healthful
-conditions can be. This child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight; to
-Ramona's regret,--so far as a loving mother can feel regret connected
-with her firstborn. Ramona had wished for an Alessandro; but the
-disappointed wish faded out of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed
-into her baby-girl's blue eyes,--eyes so blue that their color was the
-first thing noticed by each person who looked at her.
-
-"Eyes of the sky," exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her.
-
-"Like the mother's," said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an
-astonished look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes,
-too, were blue.
-
-"Wonderful!" he said. "It is so. I never saw it;" and he wondered in his
-heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born
-of an Indian mother.
-
-"Eyes of the sky," became at once the baby's name in the village; and
-Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of
-so calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The
-news was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would
-hold services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the
-new-born babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night,
-Alessandro and Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what
-should be her name. Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name
-her Majella.
-
-"No! Never but one Majella," he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a
-sense of vague fear, it was so solemn.
-
-They discussed "Ramona," "Isabella." Alessandro suggested Carmena. This
-had been his mother's name.
-
-At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in
-the Temecula graveyard. "Oh, no, no! Not that!" she cried. "It is
-ill-fated;" and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only
-association with the name.
-
-At last Alessandro said: "The people have named her, I think, Majella.
-Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never be called
-anything but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village."
-
-"Let that name be her true one, then," said Ramona. And so it was
-settled; and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms,
-and made the sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with some
-difficulty the syllables of the Indian name, which meant "Blue Eyes," or
-"Eyes of the Sky."
-
-Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he
-had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the
-Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to
-meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the
-valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do
-him the honor to stay with him.
-
-"And indeed, Father," added Ysidro, "you will be far better lodged and
-fed than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all
-should be done."
-
-"Alessandro! Alessandro!" said the Father, musingly. "Has he been long
-married?"
-
-"No, Father," answered Ysidro. "But little more than two years. They
-were married by you, on their way from Temecula here."
-
-"Ay, ay. I remember," said Father Gaspara. "I will come;" and it was
-with no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the
-couple that had so strongly impressed him.
-
-Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining
-the priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with
-her cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra
-was much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father
-Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when
-he said, "But where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella,
-if we give our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but
-you?"--"I will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana," she replied. "For
-two nights, it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father
-sleep in the house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!"
-
-Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of
-gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's
-bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad
-lace on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright
-red calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of
-green leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,--all
-made up a picture such as Father Gaspara had never before seen in
-his pilgrimages among the Indian villages. He could not restrain an
-ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he
-exclaimed, "Where got you that?"
-
-"It is my wife's," replied Alessandro, proudly. "It was given to her by
-Father Salvierderra."
-
-"Ah!" said the Father. "He died the other day."
-
-"Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!" cried Alessandro. "That will be a
-terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her
-presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will make
-her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy."
-
-Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. "To be
-sure, to be sure," he said absently; "I will say nothing of it; but this
-is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And
-this,--is this not an altar-cloth?" he added, lifting up the beautiful
-wrought altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on
-the wall below the Madonna's shrine.
-
-"Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a
-present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it to
-him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she hears
-that he is dead."
-
-Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared
-in the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to
-Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's
-supper.
-
-"I pray you tell her not," said Alessandro, under his breath; but it
-was too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona
-exclaimed:--
-
-"That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to Father
-Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave
-it to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I was hoping to hear news of him
-through you."
-
-"Yes, I knew him,--not very well; it is long since I saw him," stammered
-Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have told Ramona
-the truth; she would have set that down to the secular priest's
-indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but looking at
-Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No shadow there
-ever escaped her eye. "What is it, Alessandro?" she exclaimed. "Is it
-something about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?"
-
-Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from
-one to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona,
-laying both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had
-learned from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: "You will
-not tell me! You do not speak! Then he is dead!" and she sank on her
-knees.
-
-"Yes, my daughter, he is dead," said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than
-that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. "He died a month ago, at
-Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to give you
-such sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was very feeble, and he
-longed to die, I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not wish to
-live."
-
-Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only
-a confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, "a
-month ago." She remained silent and motionless for some moments; then
-rising, without speaking a word, or looking at either of the men, she
-crossed the room and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common impulse,
-both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood
-together outside the door, the Father said, "I would go back to Lomax's
-if it were not so late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such
-grief."
-
-"That would but be another grief, Father," said Alessandro. "She has
-been full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very strong of
-soul. It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who give strength
-to her."
-
-"My faith, but the man is right," thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour
-later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did
-not know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour.
-It wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to
-speak to her.
-
-When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the
-valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's
-name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. "I cannot talk about him yet,
-dear," she said. "I never believed that he would die without giving us
-his blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over."
-
-Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her
-the next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away,
-and spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered
-her too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help
-them. She had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since
-she came, and no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she
-smiled not. Yet there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready
-to be christened; and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing
-for half an hour, and from every corner of the valley the people were
-gathering, and Father Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was
-praying before the altar; it was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did
-Alessandro and Ramona kneel apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken
-countenances, not even looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached
-up her hands? Gradually it was whispered about what had happened. Some
-one had got it from Antonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then
-all the women's faces grew sad too. They all had heard of Father
-Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to the ivory Christ in
-Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her.
-
-As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and
-taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word.
-The gesture was more than any speech could have been.
-
-When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips,
-"Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last
-hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me."
-
-"I heard very little," replied the Father, "except that he had been
-feeble for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of the
-night kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying."
-
-"Yes," interrupted Ramona; "that he always did."
-
-"And the last morning," continued the Father, "the Brothers found him
-there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to move;
-and they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there they found,
-to their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on the stones; and
-then they took him to the Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed,
-and he did not speak any more, and at noon he died."
-
-"Thank you very much, Father," said Ramona, without lifting her eyes
-from the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, "I am glad that I
-know that he is dead."
-
-"Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!" mused
-Father Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. "There's none of them would
-look like that if I were dead, I warrant me! There," he exclaimed, "I
-meant to have asked Alessandro who this wife of his is! I don't believe
-she is a Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out. She's had
-some schooling somewhere, that's plain. She's quite superior to the
-general run of them. Next time I come, I will find out about her."
-
-"Next time!" In what calendar are kept the records of those next times
-which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again,
-Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their
-home.
-
-It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life,
-that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of
-the knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when
-Alessandro came in one noon with an expression on his face that
-terrified her; seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his
-hands, and would neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near
-crying from his silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with
-a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice, "It has begun!" and buried
-his face again. Finally Ramona's tears wrung from him the following
-story:
-
-Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of
-the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the
-Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of
-hut for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not
-need the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He
-had taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone
-to San Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in
-the interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent
-agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having
-expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished
-to renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was
-his, and he was coming out there to build a house, and live.
-
-Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had
-an angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The
-Doctor said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United
-States Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents
-in Los Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington,
-to show that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer
-in San Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,--the old one
-from the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San
-Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have;
-but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that
-such a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very
-well when the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that
-the Americans owned it now; and everything was done by the American law
-now, not by the Mexican law any more.
-
-"Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all," said Ysidro. "Is
-that what it means?"
-
-And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the
-cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,--he could
-not tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at
-Washington.
-
-Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown
-on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a
-soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States
-Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after
-souls,--that was his business,--and let the Indian beggars alone! "Yes,
-that was what he said,--'the Indian beggars!' and so they would be all
-beggars, presently."
-
-Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice
-was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with
-rage and despair.
-
-"You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do
-nothing! We might better be dead!"
-
-"It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had," said Ramona,
-piteously. "It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came."
-
-"Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman," said Alessandro,
-fiercely. "Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the beginning.
-To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show that the land is
-theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild beasts. They are
-better than we."
-
-From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom.
-In all the village councils,--and they were many and long now, for the
-little community had been plunged into great anxiety and distress
-by this Doctor Morong's affair,--Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To
-whatever was proposed, he had but one reply: "It is of no use. We can do
-nothing."
-
-"Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve," he said one night,
-bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him that
-they should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the
-headquarters of the Government officers were, and where they could learn
-all about the new laws in regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him.
-"What more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the
-American laws?" he said. "Is it not enough that you know they have made
-a law which will take the land from Indians; from us who have owned
-it longer than any can remember; land that our ancestors are buried
-in,--will take that land and give it to themselves, and say it is
-theirs? Is it to hear this again said in your face, and to see the man
-laugh who says it, like the lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey
-to Los Angeles? I will not go!"
-
-And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los
-Angeles priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently
-interpreted for him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted
-all that the officials had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as
-Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They were not inhuman, and
-they felt sincere sympathy for this man, representative of two hundred
-hard-working, industrious people, in danger of being turned out of house
-and home. But they were very busy; they had to say curtly, and in few
-words, all there was to be said: the San Pasquale district was certainly
-the property of the United States Government, and the lands were in
-market, to be filed on, and bought, according to the homestead laws,
-These officials had neither authority nor option in the matter. They
-were there simply to carry out instructions, and obey orders.
-
-Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were
-beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the
-journey; he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles
-priest had promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington,
-to lay the case before the head man there, and perhaps something would
-be done for their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding
-along day after day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the
-subject,--it seemed incredible to him that the Government would permit
-such a village as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at
-sunset; and looking down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the
-morning of their arrival, from the hillcrests at the west end of the
-valley, seeing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the
-peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. "If the people who make
-these laws could only see this village, they would never turn us out,
-never! They can't know what is being done. I am sure they can't know."
-
-"What did I tell you?" cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and
-reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. "What did I tell you?
-I saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come as you went, or
-worse! I have been watching for you these two days. Another American
-has come in with Morong in the canon; they are making corrals; they will
-keep stock. You will see how long we have any pasture-lands in that end
-of the valley. I drive all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell
-it for what it will bring,--both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use.
-You will see."
-
-When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office
-authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: "I wish to hear no more of
-it. Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and my nose.
-I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the men who are
-waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an American may speak
-truth!"
-
-Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all
-his cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. "It
-is better than nothing," he said. "They will not now be sold by the
-sheriff, like my father's in Temecula." The money he got, he took to
-Father Gaspara. "Father," he said huskily. "I have sold all my stock. I
-would not wait for the Americans to sell it for me, and take the money.
-I have not got much, but it is better than nothing. It will make that we
-do not starve for one year. Will you keep it for me, Father? I dare not
-have it in San Pasquale. San Pasquale will be like Temecula,--it may be
-to-morrow."
-
-To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San
-Diego, Alessandro cried: "Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder! I
-trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. Keep it for me,
-Father, I pray you," and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone.
-
-"What are your plans now?" he asked.
-
-"Plans!" repeated Alessandro,--"plans, Father! Why should I make plans?
-I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let me. You saw
-our little house, Father!" His voice broke as he said this. "I have
-large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off them, it will be
-something; but my land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon as
-the Americans see it, they will want it. Farewell, Father. I thank you
-for keeping my money, and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro
-told me. Farewell." And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift
-galloping Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself.
-
-"And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the
-record," said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye
-back over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father Gaspara's
-parish, that the list took long to read. The entry of Alessandro's
-marriage was blotted. The Father had been in haste that night.
-"Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--" No more could be read. The name meant
-nothing to Father Gaspara. "Clearly an Indian name," he said to himself;
-"yet she seemed superior in every way. I wonder where she got it."
-
-The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains
-set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get
-in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early
-to ploughing new fields,--all but Alessandro.
-
-"If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints," he said. "I will plough
-no more land for the robbers." But after his fields were all planted,
-and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the
-valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was known,
-he said to Ramona one morning, "I think I will make one more field of
-wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe we will be left
-unmolested till the harvest is over."
-
-"Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!" said Ramona,
-cheerily. "You are always looking on the black side."
-
-"There is no other but the black side, Majella," he replied. "Strain my
-eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any more
-harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we are
-lucky. I have seen the white men riding up and down in the valley, and
-I found some of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set up
-on my land the other day; and I pulled them up and burned them to ashes.
-But I will plough one more field this week; though, I know not why it
-is, my thoughts go against it even now. But I will do it; and I will not
-come home till night, Majella, for the field is too far to go and come
-twice. I shall be the whole day ploughing." So saying, he stooped and
-kissed the baby, and then kissing Ramona, went out.
-
-Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba
-to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of
-thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone
-a few rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes
-meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went
-on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east.
-Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too
-disquieted. She could not keep back the tears.
-
-"How changed is Alessandro!" she thought. "It terrifies me to see him
-thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;" and kneeling before the
-shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and
-drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her
-embroidery. Her skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable
-source of income, her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego
-merchants, and at fairly good prices.
-
-It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when,
-glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment
-she saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought,
-"There is no dinner! He said he would not come!" and springing up, was
-about to run to meet him, when she observed that he was not alone.
-A short, thick-set man was walking by his side; they were talking
-earnestly. It was a white man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped.
-She saw Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the
-tule sheds in the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white
-man also; they were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear.
-Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear; she could hear nothing,
-but the gestures told much. Had it come,--the thing Alessandro had said
-would come? Were they to be driven out,--driven out this very day, when
-the Virgin had only just now seemed to promise her help and protection?
-
-The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her
-breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in
-her arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her,
-made an imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went
-back to the veranda and sat down to wait.
-
-In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into
-Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still
-standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand,
-Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he
-seemed to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses'
-reins, came slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again
-he made the same authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she
-seated herself, trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now
-sometimes afraid of Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him,
-she dreaded, she knew not what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had
-loved.
-
-Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in
-the corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the
-house; walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid
-spot on each cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin.
-His eyes glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw
-from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and
-burst into a laugh more terrible than any weeping,--a laugh which wrung
-from her instantly, involuntarily, the cry, "Oh, my Alessandro! my
-Alessandro! What is it? Are you mad?"
-
-"No, my sweet Majel," he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging his
-arms round her and the child together, drawing them so close to his
-breast that the embrace hurt,--"no, I am not mad; but I think I shall
-soon be! What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, and of the
-fields,--of all that was ours in San Pasquale! To-morrow we will go out
-into the world again. I will see if I can find a place the Americans do
-not want!"
-
-It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been
-ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked
-up and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped
-midway in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro.
-Presently he came toward him, and said roughly, "Look here! Be off, will
-you? This is my land. I'm going to build a house here."
-
-Alessandro had replied, "This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours
-to-day?"
-
-Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's
-tone and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood
-to him in the place of conscience and heart, and he said: "Come, now, my
-good fellow, you look like a reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear
-out, will you, and not make me any trouble. You see the land's mine.
-I've got all this land round here;" and he waved his arm, describing a
-circle; "three hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and
-we're coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last
-week. It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make a
-fuss about it. Don't you see?"
-
-Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months.
-Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over
-scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed
-to be given him now.
-
-"Yes, I see, Senor," he said. "I am not surprised. I knew it would come;
-but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give you any
-trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I have
-heard all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands to the
-Americans. We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, Senor." He
-paused.
-
-The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at
-being met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his
-tongue. "Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on fellows like
-you, that are industrious, and have done some work on the land. But you
-see the land's in the market; I've paid my money for it."
-
-"The Senor is going to build a house?" asked Alessandro.
-
-"Yes," the man answered. "I've got my family in San Diego, and I want to
-get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till
-she's in her own house. We're from the States, and she's been used to
-having everything comfortable."
-
-"I have a wife and child, Senor," said Alessandro, still in the same
-calm, deliberate tone; "and we have a very good house of two rooms. It
-would save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine."
-
-"How far is it?" said the man. "I can't tell exactly where the
-boundaries of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up."
-
-"Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land,"
-replied Alessandro. "My house is farther west than your stakes; and I
-have large wheat-fields there, too,--many acres, Senor, all planted."
-
-Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the
-handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and
-wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for
-that purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat
-whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all
-in good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair
-means or foul.
-
-"There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, Senor, you
-can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you cannot build for
-less than one hundred dollars. What will you give me for them?"
-
-"I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose,"
-said the man, insolently.
-
-"No, Senor," replied Alessandro.
-
-"What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!" in a brutal sneer. "You
-haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law."
-
-"I shall hinder, Senor," replied Alessandro. "I shall burn down the
-sheds and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the wheat
-is reaped, I will burn that." Still in the same calm tone.
-
-"What'll you take?" said the man, sullenly.
-
-"Two hundred dollars," replied Alessandro.
-
-"Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you," said the
-man; "and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know
-it, for buying out an Indian!"
-
-"The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San Diego.
-You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to
-take away my things in. The plough you may have. That is worth twenty."
-
-"I'll do it," said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he
-counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold.
-
-"Is that all right?" he said, as he put down the last piece.
-
-"That is the sum I said, Senor," replied Alessandro. "Tomorrow, at noon,
-you can come into the house."
-
-"Where will you go?" asked the man, again slightly touched by
-Alessandro's manner. "Why don't you stay round here? I expect you could
-get work enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; they'll want
-hands."
-
-A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked
-them back. "I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here,"
-he said; and that ended the interview.
-
-"I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way," thought the
-man from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. "I
-expect I should feel just so myself."
-
-Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move
-about the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his
-restlessness was terrible to see. "By sunrise, I would like to be off,"
-he said. "It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours."
-Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible
-laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than
-to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a
-year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her
-home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed
-voice, of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed
-him mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more
-feverish in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled;
-everything, except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon.
-
-"Now, we must cook food for the journey," said Alessandro.
-
-"Where are we going?" said the weeping Ramona.
-
-"Where?" ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like
-impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. "Where? I know
-not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At
-sunrise we will start."
-
-Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the
-village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. "There
-will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you do not speak to one. Why
-should we have more tears? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro.
-He will tell them."
-
-This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it,
-as she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she
-could not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now?
-
-Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn,
-before a creature was stirring in the village,--the wagon piled high;
-Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was
-heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at
-Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side.
-He knew all was wrong.
-
-As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a
-northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, "Where does this road
-lead, Alessandro?"
-
-"To San Jacinto," he said. "San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back,
-Majella! Do not look back!" he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming
-eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. "Do not look back! It is gone!
-Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!"
-
-
-
-
-XXI
-
-THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno
-house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had
-died away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old
-routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before.
-Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very
-Mexican whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done
-well; there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,--a thing for
-which the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan
-to hold him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had
-not been broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop
-would have been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this
-Mexican; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on
-the place had or fancied some reason for being set against him; some
-from sympathy with Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience;
-Margarita, most of all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita,
-between remorse about her young mistress and pique and disappointment
-about Alessandro, had become a very unhappy girl; and her mother,
-instead of comforting or soothing her, added to her misery by
-continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that Ramona had left in
-the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing came to fill it;
-there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned by some one;
-mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion, and regret.
-Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as she said,
-or had she fled with Alessandro?
-
-Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt
-sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and
-the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, "and never a rail
-out of its place." And the saddle, too! Ay, the smart lad! He had done
-the best he could for the Senorita; but, Holy Virgin! what had got into
-the Senorita to run off like that, with an Indian,--even Alessandro!
-The fiends had bewitched her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every
-traveller, every wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of
-Alessandro, beyond the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been
-driven out of their village, and that there was now not an Indian in the
-valley. There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father had both
-died; but no one knew anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had
-disappeared, that was all there was of it,--disappeared, like any wild
-creatures, foxes or coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid
-of them. But the Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could
-not be! Heaven forbid!
-
-"If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself." said Juan Can. "It would
-be some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who
-drove her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, Luigo." In some
-of his most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: "There's none
-of you know the truth about the Senorita but me! It's a hard hand the
-Senora's reared her with, from the first. She's a wonderful woman, our
-Senora! She gets power over one."
-
-But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the
-changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and
-her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had
-been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora
-believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far
-from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to
-repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no
-longer to her desirable.
-
-Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet
-dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had
-heard the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was
-from Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother
-opened her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses
-as he read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the
-night, his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales
-seemed to drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of
-it. A shame! a cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had
-brought it on Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt
-as if he had been under a spell all along, not to have realized this.
-"That's what I told my mother!" he groaned,--"that it drove her to
-running away! Oh, my sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go
-after them, and bring them back;" and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing
-himself, ran down the veranda steps, to gain a little more time to
-think. He returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in the doorway,
-with pale, affrighted face.
-
-"Felipe!" she cried, "Ramona is not here."
-
-"I know it," he replied in an angry tone. "That is what I told you we
-should do,--drive her to running away with Alessandro!"
-
-"With Alessandro!" interrupted the Senora.
-
-"Yes," continued Felipe,--"with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps you
-think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to have her
-run away with him, than to be married to him here under our roof! I
-do not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to breaking the
-girl's heart! I am going after them, to fetch them back!"
-
-If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less
-quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from
-the skies she would not surrender till she must.
-
-"How know you that it is with Alessandro?" she said.
-
-"Because she has written it here!" cried Felipe, defiantly holding
-up his little note. "She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She
-writes like a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,--I, who
-drove her to steal out of my house like a thief!"
-
-The phrase, "my house," smote the Senora's ear like a note from some
-other sphere, which indeed it was,--from the new world into which Felipe
-had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to
-reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round
-the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his
-crutches. "Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!" they cried. "Thieves
-have been here in the night! Baba is gone,--Baba, and the Senorita's
-saddle."
-
-A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to
-Felipe, she said in a tone--what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if
-he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never
-forget,--"As you were saying, like a thief in the night!"
-
-With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen
-Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his
-mother, "For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!--What is
-that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come
-down, after breakfast, and look at it;" and turning his back on them, he
-drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house.
-
-She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.
-
-"Ay, mother," he said, "you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no
-man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins,
-be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back."
-
-"The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!" retorted the
-Senora, at white heat. "You may rear as many Indian families as you
-please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!" In spite
-of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had
-burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No
-counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within
-her, when those words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the
-sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged
-hands as they lay trembling in her lap. "Mother mia," he cried, "you
-will break my heart if you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command
-me to do what a man may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can
-I see my sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?"
-
-"I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home," said the
-Senora, regaining herself a little. "Had they no plans? Spoke she not in
-her letter of what they would do?"
-
-"Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first," he replied.
-
-"Ah!" The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was
-that this would be the best possible thing which could happen. "Father
-Salvierderra will counsel them what to do," she said. "He could no doubt
-establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect,
-you will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any
-way you like, but do not bring them here." She paused. "Not until I am
-dead, Felipe! It will not be long."
-
-Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his
-hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. "My Felipe!" she said.
-"It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!"
-
-"Mother! mother!" he cried in anguish. "I am yours,--wholly, devotedly
-yours! Why do you torture me thus?"
-
-"I will not torture you more," she said wearily, in a feeble tone. "I
-ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that
-wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name
-never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in
-the night! Ay, a horse-thief!"
-
-Felipe sprang to his feet.
-
-"Mother." he said, "Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as
-soon as he was born!"
-
-The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror
-and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many
-days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over
-her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion.
-She spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from
-despair. The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would
-take long. Yet she was dying, and she knew it.
-
-Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step
-only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much
-changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a
-time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should
-find them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he
-should find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the
-possibility of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help
-them, if need be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as
-he lived.
-
-When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, "You are so
-strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away
-long,--not over a week," she understood, and with a deep sigh replied:
-"I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey
-must be taken, it is as well done now."
-
-How was the Senora changed!
-
-"It must be, mother," said Felipe, "or I would not leave you. I will set
-off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight."
-
-But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and
-there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. "You must go, my son?"
-she asked at last.
-
-"I must, mother!" and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her
-again and again. "Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?"
-
-"No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell." And she
-turned, that she might not see him go.
-
-Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter.
-Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along
-the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to
-the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen
-any such persons.
-
-When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara
-Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra
-sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed
-with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in
-each hand. "Welcome, my son!" he said. "Are all well? You find me very
-feeble just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn."
-
-Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have
-spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe
-exclaimed: "Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?"
-
-Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. "Ramona!" he
-cried. "Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?"
-
-It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing
-himself no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he
-known how well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character,
-and her almost unlimited power over all persons around her. Father
-Salvierderra was not shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for
-Alessandro. He regretted it, but he did not think it shame, as the
-Senora had done. As Felipe talked with him, he perceived even more
-clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had been to Alessandro.
-
-"He is a noble young man," said Father Salvierderra. "His father was one
-of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them,
-Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps they may yet
-come. When you find them, bear them my blessing, and say that I wish
-they would come hither. I would like to give them my blessing before
-I die. Felipe, I shall never leave Santa Barbara again. My time draws
-near."
-
-Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly
-listened to the Father's words. "I will not tarry," he said. "I cannot
-rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night."
-
-"You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them," said the
-Father. "God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them,
-Felipe;" and he tottered into the church.
-
-Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment
-and pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and
-Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention
-of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to
-look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days
-before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley.
-But he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as
-the clew seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse
-on his return journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the
-beast; and before he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature
-was near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save
-her strength. As he was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he
-suddenly saw an Indian's head peering over the ledge. He made signs
-to him to come down. The Indian turned his head, and spoke to some one
-behind; one after another a score of figures rose. They made signs to
-Felipe to come up. "Poor things!" he thought; "they are afraid." He
-shouted to them that his horse was too tired to climb that wall; but if
-they would come down, he would give them money, holding up a gold-piece.
-They consulted among themselves; presently they began slowly descending,
-still halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him. He held
-up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as they could see his face
-distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no enemy's face.
-
-Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply
-to Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught
-the word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian
-tongue.
-
-"This woman has seen Alessandro," said the man.
-
-"Where?" said Felipe, breathlessly.
-
-"In Temecula, two weeks ago," he said.
-
-"Ask her if he had any one with him," said Felipe.
-
-"No," said the woman. "He was alone."
-
-A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. "Alone!" What did this mean! He
-reflected. The woman watched him. "Is she sure he was alone; there was
-no one with him?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"Was he riding a big black horse?"
-
-"No, a white horse," answered the woman, promptly. "A small white
-horse."
-
-It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle
-this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. "Ask her
-if she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him."
-
-"All night," he answered. "He spent the night where she did."
-
-Felipe despaired. "Does she know where he is now?" he asked.
-
-"He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey."
-
-"What to do?"
-
-"She does not know."
-
-"Did he say when he would come back?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"When?"
-
-"Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again."
-
-"Does she know him well?"
-
-"As well as her own brother."
-
-What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of
-his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. "I am
-sorry," he said. "Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;" and he
-rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph.
-
-When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made
-as if she would run after him, but checked herself. "No," she thought.
-"It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will not tell.
-Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell."
-
-And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a
-moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,--the breath of a
-loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her.
-
-Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very
-ill when she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely,
-sorrowing Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away
-to the North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from
-speaking Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again.
-As soon as he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never
-cease searching till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when
-Felipe entered his mother's presence, his first look in her face told
-him that he would not leave her side again until he had laid her at rest
-in the tomb.
-
-"Thank God! you have come, Felipe," she said in a feeble voice. "I had
-begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am
-going to leave you, my son;" and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
-
-Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,--this
-poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the consolations
-of her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed incessantly, but got
-no peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the Virgin's face and on the
-saints; but all seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. "If Father
-Salvierderra would only come!" she groaned. "He could give me peace. If
-only I can live till he comes again!"
-
-When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would
-never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept.
-Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished
-to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To
-whom should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest
-within reach that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her
-instructions, "the Church," she meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew,
-the Franciscans. The Senora dared not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day
-by day these fretting anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength,
-and her fever grew higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the
-result of Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At
-last he could bear it no longer, and one day said, "Mother, I found no
-trace of Ramona. I have not the least idea where she is. The Father had
-not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead."
-
-"Better so," was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still
-deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she
-resolved, "To-morrow I will tell Felipe;" and when to-morrow came,
-she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found
-herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and
-then all would be well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter,
-imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was
-empowered to hire a litter and four men to bring the Father gently and
-carefully all the way. But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara,
-Father Salvierderra was too feeble to be moved; too feeble even
-to write. He could write only by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore,
-guardedly, sending her his blessing, and saying that he hoped her
-foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping of her friends. The
-Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month after month had passed
-without tidings of his "blessed child."
-
-Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the
-Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year
-had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother,
-and haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured
-indeed.
-
-But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura
-doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing
-remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more
-all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so
-loved and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness
-and devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days,
-the sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts.
-
-"My adorable Felipe!" she would murmur. "What a son hast thou been!"
-And, "My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?" Felipe would reply,
-bowing his head on her hands,--so wasted now, so white, so weak; those
-hands which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year
-ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle
-Ramona, had she seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times
-a look almost of terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it?
-What would Felipe say? At last the moment came. She had been with
-difficulty roused from a long fainting; one more such would be the
-last, she knew,--knew even better than those around her. As she regained
-consciousness, she gasped, "Felipe! Alone!"
-
-He understood, and waved the rest away.
-
-"Alone!" she said again, turning her eyes to the door.
-
-"Leave the room," said Felipe; "all--wait outside;" and he closed the
-door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to
-go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery,
-rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw
-with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make
-him, even after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts.
-
-But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue
-of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving
-upon her, she said, "Felipe--behind that statue--look!"
-
-Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, "Nothing is there,
-dearest mother. Be calm. I am here."
-
-New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry
-the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? "No! no!
-Felipe--there is a door there--secret door. Look! Open! I must tell
-you!"
-
-Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had
-said.
-
-"Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger," he said.
-As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright
-in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door,
-her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass
-his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead.
-
-At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing
-aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion,
-Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place.
-Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son,
-to find behind that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died
-with that look of anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad
-duties of the next four days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent
-of this premonition. The funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little
-chapel could not hold the quarter part of those who came, from far and
-near. Everybody wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from
-Ventura and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done, they
-bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by
-the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at last,
-the restless, passionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night after the
-funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his mother's room,
-they shuddered, and whispered, "Oh, he must not! He will break his
-heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!"
-
-Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: "Dear Senor
-Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!"
-
-But he put her gently by, saying, "I would rather be here, good Marda;"
-and went in and locked the door.
-
-It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried
-his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe
-the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the
-jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was
-in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he
-sat motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul
-was wrung.
-
-"And she thought that shame, and not this!" he said bitterly.
-
-But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find
-her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it
-must go to the Santa Barbara College.
-
-"Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church," he said.
-"But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh,
-shame! oh, disgrace!" From the grave in which Felipe had buried his
-mother now, was no resurrection.
-
-Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and
-wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling
-him of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies
-would belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to
-Juan Canito, saying: "I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything
-happens to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger
-to Santa Barbara."
-
-"Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?" asked the old man, piteously.
-
-"I cannot tell, Juan," replied Felipe. "It may be only a short time; it
-may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according
-to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in
-charge."
-
-"Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!" exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been
-for two years. "Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy
-till now, I have had no thought except for your house."
-
-Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she
-known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of
-the gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping
-behind her body borne to burial.
-
-"And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!" he said. "My
-God!"
-
-
-
-
-XXII
-
-DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they
-scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on
-his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious
-fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response.
-After they were camped for the night, she said, "Dear Alessandro, will
-you not tell me where we are going?"
-
-In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her
-tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: "My
-Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what
-to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round
-as leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I
-can be going mad? It was enough to make me!"
-
-Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could.
-"Dear Alessandro," she said, "let us go to Los Angeles, and not live
-with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at
-dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing
-to do, too. It would be better, I think."
-
-He looked horror-stricken at the thought. "Go live among the white
-people!" he cried. "What does Majella think would become of one Indian,
-or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive
-us out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh,
-Majella is foolish!"
-
-"But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino
-and other places," she persisted. "Why could not we do as they do?"
-
-"Yes," he said bitterly, "at work for whites; so they are, Majella has
-not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when
-the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father
-has told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a
-white man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella.
-And now they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes
-in bad flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if
-he will not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to
-go, then. One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not
-take a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the
-cheek with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any
-more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill
-some man, Majella, if I saw things like that."
-
-Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: "If Majella
-would not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, where
-no white man has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was
-following a bear. The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then,
-it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little green
-valley. We could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, it
-is very small, the valley. Majella would be afraid?"
-
-"Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh,
-do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is there
-no other Indian village you know?"
-
-"There is Saboba," he said, "at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I had
-thought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it is
-a poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it.
-Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. There
-was a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,--Senor Ravallo; he
-found the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is one
-of the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said they
-should never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons have
-the estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise to
-the Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back
-to Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as
-they did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley.
-We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, we
-will stay."
-
-It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San
-Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky
-over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern
-part of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and
-golden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto
-Mountain shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of
-rubies. The glow seemed preternatural.
-
-"Behold San Jacinto!" cried Alessandro.
-
-Ramona exclaimed in delight. "It is an omen!" she said. "We are going
-into the sunlight, out of the shadow;" and she glanced back at the west,
-which was of a slaty blackness.
-
-"I like it not!" said Alessandro. "The shadow follows too fast!"
-
-Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and
-tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses
-across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He
-urged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much
-even for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded
-wagon.
-
-"There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we
-could but reach it!" groaned Alessandro. "Majella, you and the child
-will freeze."
-
-"She is warm on my breast," said Ramona; "but, Alessandro, what ice in
-this wind! It is like a knife at my back!"
-
-Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast
-thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened.
-
-"Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did," said Ramona, her teeth
-chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer.
-
-"I would rather it blew than not," said Alessandro; "it will carry the
-snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than
-in the night."
-
-Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as
-Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,--this strange
-opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently
-the rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The
-horses stopped; refused to go on.
-
-"We are lost, if we stay here!" cried Alessandro. "Come, my Benito,
-come!" and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back
-into the road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank
-within her. She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she
-hold the baby safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the
-wind had risen again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like
-making headway among whirling snow-drifts.
-
-"We will die," thought Ramona. "Perhaps it is as well!" And that was the
-last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken
-and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, "Sorry ter handle yer so
-rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!"
-
-"Fire!" Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put
-the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried
-to rise from her seat; but she could not move.
-
-"Set still! set still!" said the strange voice. "I'll jest carry the
-baby ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up
-on yer feet;" and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously
-disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry.
-
-"Thank God!" said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. "The child
-is alive! Majella!" he called.
-
-"Yes, Alessandro," she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice
-like a distant echo past him.
-
-It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral
-than Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten
-travellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it.
-Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had thought to himself,
-in almost the same despairing words as Ramona, "This will end all our
-troubles," he saw a faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned the
-horses' heads towards it. The ground was rough and broken, and more than
-once he had been in danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed
-on, shouting at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and
-another light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards
-him,--a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, "Wall,
-stranger, I allow yer inter trouble," were as intelligible to Alessandro
-as if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect.
-
-Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish.
-
-"Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!" thought Jeff Hyer to
-himself. "Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn't
-know better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!" And as he put
-the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, "Ef I'd
-knowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They're
-more ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks."
-
-"Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human
-creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this," replied the
-woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its
-first touch, and ceased crying.
-
-"Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!" she exclaimed, as she looked
-into the baby's face. "I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein'
-aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit."
-
-"Better see't th' mother fust, Ri," said Jeff, leading, half carrying,
-Ramona into the hut. "She's nigh abaout froze stiff!"
-
-But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for
-Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered.
-It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the
-corner of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose
-bright eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his
-disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened
-and wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair
-wound in a careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying
-over her forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite
-of her careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity
-in her bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and
-warmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and
-as she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, "This ain't no
-common Mexican, no how." "Be ye movers?" she said.
-
-Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not
-included. "Ah, Senora," she said regretfully, "I cannot talk in the
-English speech; only in Spanish."
-
-"Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can't
-talk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter.
-Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,--fur warm climate! 'pears
-like it, don't it?" and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of
-ineffable tenderness at the sick man. "Ask her who they be, Jos," she
-added.
-
-Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona,
-said in Spanish, "My mother asks if you are travellers?"
-
-"Yes," said Ramona. "We have come all the way from San Diego. We are
-Indians."
-
-"Injuns!" ejaculated Jos's mother. "Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly
-took in Injuns? What on airth--Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny
-white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to stay
-naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thet
-baby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes."
-
-Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing.
-Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had
-never before heard so many English sentences without being able to
-understand one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest
-words, that she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently,
-"I know very little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it
-tire you to interpret to me what your mother said?"
-
-Jos was as full of humor as his mother. "She wants me to tell her what
-you wuz sayin'," he said, "I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't
-she'll like best.--My mother says you can stay here with us till the
-storm is over," he said to Ramona.
-
-Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried
-it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion.
-"Thanks! thanks! Senora!" she cried.
-
-"What is it she calls me, Jos?" asked his mother.
-
-"Senora," he replied. "It only means the same as lady."
-
-"Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round
-where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me
-whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken."
-
-With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title
-of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.
-
-Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him
-both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally
-said, "I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one."
-
-"Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ri, "aout here 'n thes
-wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,--jest what they all say ter
-hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see
-ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet
-ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel
-enny different."
-
-"There's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affectionately. "Yer'd find out
-fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air
-ter everybody."
-
-Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to
-her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she
-now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which
-raged outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked
-together for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and
-many of the boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at
-every blast of the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were
-burning a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer
-had hastily collected before the storm reached its height. A few more
-sticks lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor
-provision for a night in the snow. "Be ye warm, Jos?" she asked.
-
-"Not very, mammy," he said; "but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's
-somethin'."
-
-It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had
-always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered
-from it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern
-Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs.
-But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking,
-it was "jest like aour luck," they said, and did nothing, or next to
-nothing, about it. Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; after
-all, they got more comfort out of life than many a family whose surface
-conditions were incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest
-child and only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and
-the doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across the
-plains in a wagon to California, they said, "What good luck 'Lizy was
-married last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm
-'n goin' right off." And they sold their little place for half it was
-worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon, and set
-off, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the
-wagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pair
-of steers "to spell" the horses, and a cow to give milk for Jos, they
-drove before them; and so they had come by slow stages, sometimes
-camping for a week at a time, all the way from Tennessee to the San
-Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was getting well. Another six
-months, they thought, would see him cured; and it would have gone hard
-with any one who had tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyer
-that they were not as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they not
-saved Joshua, their son?
-
-Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly
-like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the
-lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all
-their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one
-will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean,
-quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having
-heard her name, "Maria," in full; as a child, and until she was married,
-she was simply "Ri;" and as soon as she had a house of her own, to
-become a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by common
-consent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal
-aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and honor than she
-dreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her reach, that did not call
-her or know of her as "Aunt Ri."
-
-"I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not," she said
-reflectively; "ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come
-short o' wood, thet's clear." As she spoke, the door of the hut burst
-open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both covered
-with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a
-little clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods from
-the house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering the
-horses in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff,
-seeing him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own,
-and followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm
-for hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to
-Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, then
-into hers; then he said devoutly, "The saints be praised, my Majella! It
-is a miracle!"
-
-Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. "Ef they ain't Catholics!"
-he thought. "What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammy
-they're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be.
-Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz
-born."
-
-By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well
-acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of
-friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them.
-
-"Jeff," said Aunt Ri,--"Jeff, they can't understand a word we say,
-so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seem
-hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but
-their own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uv
-Injuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want ter
-come nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ez
-sweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer could
-ask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest
-worships the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I
-see a white man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think
-yer ever did yerself?"
-
-Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her
-ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two
-of narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond
-bands or families they had encountered in their journey across the
-plains. Here she found herself sitting side by side in friendly
-intercourse with an Indian man and Indian woman, whose appearance and
-behavior were attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularly
-drawn.
-
-"I'm free to confess, Jos," she said, "I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I
-hain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've took
-to like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger in
-Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but she
-don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yer
-notice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thet
-feller? 'N' I don't blame her."
-
-Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro
-without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now
-there was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which
-made its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason.
-She had hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt
-with her. She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear.
-
-The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a
-solid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky.
-
-"It will be all gone by noon to-morrow," said Alessandro to Jos, who was
-dreading the next day.
-
-"Not really!" he said.
-
-"You will see," said Alessandro. "I have often known it thus. It is like
-death while it lasts; but it is never long."
-
-The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the
-valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters
-for Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their
-primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great
-anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's
-anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there
-was good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro
-knew the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he
-was rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide
-in hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion;
-companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,--companionship,
-the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond.
-This hot-spring canon was only a short distance from the Saboba village,
-of which they had spoken as a possible home; which she had from the
-first desired to try. She no longer had repugnance to the thought of an
-Indian village; she already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any
-Indian people. She had become, as Carmena had said, "one of them."
-
-A few days saw the two families settled,--the Hyers in their tent and
-wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in
-a little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to an
-old Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live with
-a daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own
-house. It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly made
-adobe bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. When
-Alessandro heard Ramona say cheerily, "Oh, this will do very well, when
-it is repaired a little," his face was convulsed, and he turned away;
-but he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village,
-and there were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it.
-Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the
-earth floor; a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung
-on the walls, served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico
-canopy was again set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red
-manzanita frame, stood near. A small window in the door, and one more
-cut in the walls, let in light and air. On a shelf near one of these
-windows stood the little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San
-Pasquale.
-
-When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put
-both arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her
-eyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation:
-"Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!"
-
-Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had
-the expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not
-understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood
-it. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: "It beats all ever I
-see, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't no
-more'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, fur
-all three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow,
-Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does.
-I'd jest like you to see it."
-
-And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri
-had been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which
-had never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and
-it could not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the
-good-hearted wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate
-disorderly genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when,
-one day, after the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly
-successful hunt, the two families had sat down together to a supper
-of Ramona's cooking,--stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles with
-chili,--their wonder was still greater.
-
-"Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos," said Aunt Ri. "I never
-thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!"
-
-Ramona laughed. "No; it is Mexican," she said. "I learned to cook from
-an old Mexican woman."
-
-"Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the
-time to fuss with it," said Aunt Ri; "but I may's well git the rule,
-naow I'm here."
-
-Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He
-had been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona
-cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion
-Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake
-in him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in
-the village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little
-handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large;
-their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and
-two or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd
-the Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still,
-and there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was
-content. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin
-to it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house;
-Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when
-he spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not
-Alessandro comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before
-building.
-
-Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away
-on his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had
-gone to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or
-lace for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She
-did not believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say,
-"If there is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock
-before winter is over." "Yes," said another; "and look at those damned
-Indians over there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their
-village! It's a shame they should have that spring!"
-
-Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it
-locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning
-and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring
-in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the
-bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating
-ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated
-fields,--many acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself
-had fields there from which they would harvest all they needed for the
-horses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites
-took away this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring
-began in the very heart of the village, they could not take it without
-destroying the village. "And the Ravallos would surely never let that be
-done," thought Ramona. "While they live, it will not happen."
-
-It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled
-up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months
-had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters
-had seemed to do such good to Jos. But, "We ain't rich folks, yer know,
-not by a long ways, we ain't," said Aunt Ri; "an' we've got pretty nigh
-down to where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git
-settled 'n some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done.
-Jeff, he's a master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't
-think it; 'n I kin airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good
-carpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du
-love weavin'. I donno how I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh
-about a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do
-yer think yer'd be contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free
-to say I didn't know's I should."
-
-"Is it hard?" cried Ramona. "Could I learn to do it?" It was wonderful
-what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in
-these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly
-to her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation.
-
-"Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't," said Aunt Ri. "I don't s'pose I'm much of a
-jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in
-the loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don't
-remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried to
-teach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn;
-it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o'
-the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in San
-Bernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' be
-glad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin'
-though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not but what thar's plenty
-o' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd
-say. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit
-for carpet-rags, than any place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftless
-lot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say
-Injuns, I don't never mean yeow, yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to
-me one mite like an Injun."
-
-"Most of our people haven't had any chance," said Ramona. "You wouldn't
-believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; how
-they are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes."
-
-Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to
-Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast;
-she found no words to express her indignation.
-
-"I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it." she said. "Why,
-they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee,
-fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell
-'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar."
-
-"I think it's the people in Washington that have done it," said Ramona,
-sadly. "Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?"
-
-"I bleeve so!" said Aunt Ri, "Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't,
-makes the laws?"
-
-"I bleeve so." said Jos. "They make some, at any rate. I donno's they
-make 'em all."
-
-"It is all done by the American law," said Ramona, "all these things;
-nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has to
-be killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff told Alessandro,
-at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriff
-did; but he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't any
-help."
-
-Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. "I sh'll make a business
-o' findin' out abaout this thing yit," she said. "I think yer hain't got
-the rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!"
-
-"It's all cheating." said Ramona; "but there isn't any help for it, Aunt
-Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money."
-
-"I'm an Ummeriken!" cried Aunt Ri; "an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're
-Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not
-out er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're above
-cheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o'
-this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's a
-burnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be done
-abaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!"
-
-A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for
-want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to
-do something. "I ain't nobody," she said; "I know thet well enough,--I
-ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout the
-country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeff
-hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest,
-nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aout
-what all this yere means she's been tellin' us."
-
-But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands
-and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby
-had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for
-Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday
-no loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the
-spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that
-she had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill
-in the snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before
-that, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her
-pinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a
-feeble wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies
-that Aunt Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact,
-Aunt Ri from the first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's
-symptoms. Day after day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands
-clasped, his face set. Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out,
-he bore her in his arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer
-to the Virgin, to the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen,
-though money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in
-vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a
-doctor. "Find Aunt Ri," she said; "she will go with you, with Jos, and
-talk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just as
-she did when they were here, only weaker and thinner."
-
-Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San
-Bernardino. "Not to rights yit," she said,--as if she ever would be.
-Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on
-pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for his
-mother,--a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and
-a roof; one small square window,--that was all; but if Aunt Ri had
-been presented with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased.
-Already she had woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one for
-a neighbor, and had promised as many more as she could do before spring;
-the news of the arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch
-all through the lower walks of San Bernardino life. "I wouldn't hev
-bleeved they hed so many rags besides what they're wearin'," said Aunt
-Ri, as sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri
-had gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly,
-impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of people, and
-knew who was who, and what was what, and why, among them all, far better
-than many an old resident of the town.
-
-When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from
-her high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before
-Alessandro had dismounted, cried: "Ye're jest the man I wanted; I've
-been tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeff
-couldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet,
-'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come in
-ther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowed
-yer hadn't got the rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on
-the side o' the thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an'
-they've jest sent out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,--to
-take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. He
-come last month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a
-spell, last week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's
-a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays
-him; yer don't hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o'
-savin', to git yer docterin' fur nuthin'!"
-
-Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said.
-He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English
-he tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do.
-
-"Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by
-the Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer
-ter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive
-down 'n' see her!"
-
-Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the
-door bringing a doctor!
-
-Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as
-interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new
-phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened
-with trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt
-Ri's voluble narrative.
-
-The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's
-errand he listened indifferently, and then said, "Is he an Agency
-Indian?"
-
-"A what?" exclaimed Aunt Ri.
-
-"Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?"
-
-"No," said she; "he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him,
-jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in
-Saboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout."
-
-"Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?" said the doctor,
-impatiently. "You ought to have taken him to the Agent first."
-
-"Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?" asked Aunt Ri,
-wrathfully. "Thet's what I heerd."
-
-"Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;"
-and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all
-the time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life and
-death; "I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians will
-sooner or later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd better
-take this man over there. What does he want now?"
-
-Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor
-said, "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will
-help her;" and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle of
-dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it to
-Alessandro, saying, "That will do her good, I guess."
-
-"Thanks, Senor, thanks," said Alessandro.
-
-The doctor stared. "That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this
-office," he said. "You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis."
-
-"What's that, Jos?" said Aunt Ri, as they went out.
-
-"Donno!" said Jos. "I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good."
-
-Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would
-it make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great
-Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man,
-who had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale
-farm for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl.
-
-From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri
-felt herself more at home.
-
-"I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv," she said, with a wave
-of her hand toward Alessandro. "We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some
-metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd."
-
-The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did
-so, "The man's never been here before, has he?"
-
-"No," said Aunt Ri.
-
-"What is his name?"
-
-Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. "Stop him."
-cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. "Don't let him write, till I know
-what he puts my name in his book for!"
-
-"Wait," said Jos. "He doesn't want you to write his name in that book.
-He wants to know what it's put there for."
-
-Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying
-to speak kindly, the Agent said: "There's no making these Indians
-understand anything. They seem to think if I have their names in my
-book, it gives me some power over them."
-
-"Wall, don't it?" said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. "Hain't yer got any
-power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got it
-over? What yer goin' to do for 'em?"
-
-The Agent laughed in spite of himself. "Well, Aunt Ri,"--she was already
-"Aunt Ri" to the Agent's boys,--"that's just the trouble with this
-Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all my
-Indians on a reservation."
-
-Alessandro understood the words "my Indians." He had heard them before.
-
-"What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?" he asked fiercely. "I will not
-have my name in his book if it makes me his."
-
-When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper.
-"That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him
-go, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!"
-
-"Oh, no, no." cried Aunt Ri. "Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll
-make him understand."
-
-Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly
-suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites
-except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was
-impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple
-and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. "Let us go!" he said. "I do not wish
-to sign any paper."
-
-"Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!" said Aunt
-Ri. "Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin'
-his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injuns
-wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?" she added, turning to
-the Agent. "Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the
-Agency books."
-
-Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his
-baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name
-be written, rather than that.
-
-"Let him write the name, then," said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went
-out of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck.
-
-
-
-
-XXIII
-
-THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too
-feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the
-Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to
-his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to
-ride. Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry
-him there in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way.
-Alessandro's name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had
-written it,--for this and nothing else,--to save the baby's life. Having
-thus enrolled himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on
-this the Agency doctor. And that his application might be all in due
-form, he took with him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving,
-before, that Aunt Ri's kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not
-one unnecessary word, was Alessandro's motto.
-
-To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride
-thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild
-statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing,
-when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father
-expected.
-
-"Good Lord!" he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in
-the office. "Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks
-the Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!"
-
-Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. "Do
-you understand English?" he asked sharply.
-
-"A very little, Senor," replied Alessandro.
-
-The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it
-most emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not
-only out of the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the
-child's sake he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no
-such horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one
-would not know he was in motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor
-come down and look at the horse? Then he would see what it would be like
-to ride him.
-
-"Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies," said the doctor. "I know
-they can run."
-
-Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came
-into his eyes. "It is our only child, Senor," he said. "It will take you
-but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the
-child dies, she will die."
-
-"No! no!" The doctor was weary of being importuned. "Tell the man it
-is impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go about the
-country this way. They'd be sending for me down to Agua Caliente next,
-and bringing up their ponies to carry me."
-
-"He will not go?" asked Alessandro.
-
-The interpreter shook his head. "He cannot," he said.
-
-Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. "Ask him
-if he will come for money?" he said. "I have gold at home. I will pay
-him, what the white men pay him."
-
-"Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!" said
-the doctor.
-
-And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard
-the coarse laugh, and the words, "Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?"
-which followed his departure from the room.
-
-When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart
-seemed breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon;
-she was plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the
-cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment
-for the hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor
-would not come. She had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro
-the account of the appointment by the Government of these two men to
-look after the Indians' interests. What else could their coming mean,
-except that, at last, the Indians were to have justice? She thought,
-in her simplicity, that the doctor must have died, since Alessandro was
-riding home alone.
-
-"He would not come!" said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse,
-wearily.
-
-"Would not!" cried Ramona. "Would not! Did you not say the Government
-had sent him to be the doctor for Indians?"
-
-"That was what they said," he replied. "You see it is a lie, like the
-rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The child must
-die, Majella!"
-
-"She shall not die!" cried Ramona. "We will carry her to him!" The
-thought struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of
-it before? "You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so
-gently, she will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or
-you, all the way!" she continued. "And we can sleep at Aunt Ri's house.
-Oh, why, why did we not do it before? Early in the morning we will
-start."
-
-All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had
-ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the
-child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know?
-
-The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready,
-ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she
-smiled. "The first smile she has given for days," cried Ramona. "Oh, the
-air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba!
-Dear Baba!" and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the horse's side,
-Alessandro riding Benito. As they paced along, their eyes never leaving
-the baby's face, Ramona said, in a low tone, "Alessandro, I am almost
-afraid to tell you what I have done. I took the little Jesus out of the
-Madonna's arms and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the
-Madonna will grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did
-you ever hear of it?"
-
-"Never!" exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. "Never, Majella!
-How dared you?"
-
-"I dare anything now!" said Ramona. "I have been thinking to do it for
-some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till she gave
-me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not have courage to
-sit and look at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do
-it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and I told
-her, 'When we come back with our baby well, you shall have your little
-Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doctor
-cure our baby!' Oh, I have heard, many times, women tell the Senora they
-had done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never will she let
-the Jesus be out of her arms more than three weeks before she will
-grant any prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me,
-Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had
-brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only
-at night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. So she
-did not miss him so much; else she had brought you quicker."
-
-"But, Majella," said the logical Alessandro, "it was because I could not
-leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came."
-
-"If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,"
-said Ramona, confidently.
-
-For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were
-really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling
-mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to
-love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But
-it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped,
-closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first.
-He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. "Majella!" he cried, in a tone
-which told her all.
-
-In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the
-dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her
-mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of
-agony swept over the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were
-heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove
-to caress her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky. "I have killed
-her! I have killed her!" she cried. "Oh, let me die!"
-
-Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again.
-
-"Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!"
-gasped Ramona.
-
-Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since
-his first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have
-forgotten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned
-to stone.
-
-When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran
-hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its
-hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it
-again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed
-out prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed,
-his arms folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still
-without speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned
-aloud, and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's
-coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed,
-she dressed the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then
-laying her in the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought
-altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the
-time when she embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song
-of the finches, the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro
-sitting on the steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that
-she,--that girl who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful
-altar-cloth? Was it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it
-Alessandro yonder, driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows
-rang, louder and louder! The air seemed deafening full of sound. With
-her hands pressed to her temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful
-unconsciousness set her free, for an interval, from her anguish.
-
-When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had
-lifted her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought
-she would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his
-lethargy. When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak.
-She closed them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. "I
-heard you out there," she said.
-
-"Yes," he replied. "It is done." And he pointed to a little box of rough
-boards by the side of the cradle.
-
-"Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?" he asked.
-
-"Yes, Alessandro, I am ready," she said.
-
-"We will hide forever," he said.
-
-"It makes no difference," she replied.
-
-The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never
-come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of
-San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba
-people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites,
-and be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona.
-But now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight
-of the dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had
-covered the box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over
-it fell in folds to the floor. "Why does not this mother weep? Is she
-like the whites, who have no heart?" said the Saboba mothers among
-themselves; and they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what
-to say. Ramona perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them.
-Benumbing terrors, which were worse than her grief, were crowding
-Ramona's heart now. She had offended the Virgin; she had committed a
-blasphemy: in one short hour the Virgin had punished her, had smitten
-her child dead before her eyes. And now Alessandro was going mad; hour
-by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes in him. What form would the
-Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let Alessandro become a raging
-madman, and finally kill both himself and her? That seemed to Ramona
-the most probable fate in store for them. When the funeral was over, and
-they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of the empty cradle
-Ramona broke down.
-
-"Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere,
-so it is not here!" she cried.
-
-"Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told
-her of?" he said.
-
-"No!" she replied earnestly. "No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me
-away!"
-
-A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. "It is well,"
-he said. "My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe
-there."
-
-The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San
-Pasquale again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly
-at work, planning the details of their move and of the new life. He
-mentioned them one after another to Ramona. They could not take both
-horses; feed would be scanty there, and there would be no need of two
-horses. The cow also they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and
-the meat, dried, would last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped
-he could sell; and he would buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live
-well in these heights to which they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes,
-very safe; not only against whites, who, because the little valley was
-so small and bare, would not desire it, but against Indians also. For
-the Indians, silly things, had a terror of the upper heights of San
-Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived there, and money would not hire
-one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as this valley which Alessandro
-had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these features
-of safety in their hiding-place. "The first time I saw it, Majella,--I
-believe the saints led me there,--I said, it is a hiding-place. And
-then I never thought I would be in want of such,--of a place to keep my
-Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!" And he clasped her to his breast with
-a terrifying passion.
-
-For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was
-not an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard
-work to give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the
-wagon for quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to
-so much as name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt
-unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting
-from their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses
-and wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the
-winter.
-
-It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if
-he could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the
-chance. "He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,"
-she said. "They would be well cared for; and then, if we did not like
-living on the mountain, we could have the horses and wagon again when we
-came down, or Jos could sell them for us in San Bernardino. Nobody could
-see Benito and Baba working together, and not want them."
-
-"Majella is wiser than the dove!" cried Alessandro. "She has seen what
-is the best thing to do. I will take them."
-
-When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but
-with a look of horror she refused. "Never," she cried, "one step on that
-accursed road! I will never go on that road again unless it is to be
-carried, as we brought her, dead."
-
-Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be
-intolerable, spite of all its affectionate kindliness. "Tell her I love
-her," she said, "but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year
-perhaps we will go down,--if there is any other way besides that road."
-
-Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling.
-It rankled deep. "I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never," she
-said. "I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head, to do 't!
-I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've got jest thet
-feelin' abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this yer world
-inter anuther."
-
-The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern
-horizon of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door
-of the little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat
-there hour after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the
-heavy treadle, and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with
-tender yearnings at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote
-it, it glowed like fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds.
-
-"'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos," Aunt Ri would
-say. "I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't it,
-ever sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout,
-sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air into 't; 't
-can't be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be
-like bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed ther
-couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but hisself. He
-found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all thar is,
-fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin."
-
-The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very
-thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet
-strong enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San
-Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at
-present out of their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish
-was to have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one.
-They had tried in vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one
-suitable for light work. "'Pears like I'd die o' shame," said Aunt Ri,
-"sometimes when I ketch myself er thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er
-gettin' thet Injun's hosses an' waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez
-much ez he hez so fur, he's goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he
-cums. I allow ter Jos 'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll
-dew good tew days' work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest
-like kittens; they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the
-world, 'n' more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a
-child. Pore thing,--'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!"
-
-Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went
-hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came
-towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since
-the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,--a
-lovely green canon with oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that
-he had thought of building his house if they had stayed in Saboba. But
-Alessandro laughed bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream.
-Already the news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for
-the settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold
-to this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley
-were all fencing in their lands; no more free running of stock. The
-Saboba people were too poor to build miles of fencing; they must soon
-give up keeping stock; and the next thing would be that they would be
-driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was none too soon that he
-had persuaded Majella to flee to the mountain. There, at least, they
-could live and die in peace,--a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest
-of deaths; but they would have each other. It was well the baby had
-died; she was saved all this misery. By the time she had grown to be
-a woman, if she had lived, there would be no place in all the country
-where an Indian could find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as
-these, Alessandro went up into the canon one morning. It must be done.
-Everything was ready for their move; it would take many days to carry
-even their few possessions up the steep mountain trail to their new
-home; the pony which had replaced Benito and Baba could not carry a
-heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona would dry the beef which
-would be their supply of meat for many months. Then they would go.
-
-At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began
-cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying.
-Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona
-went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from
-house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out
-excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them
-darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. "Hide it! hide it!" she cried,
-breathless; "hide the meat! It is Merrill's men, from the end of the
-valley. They have lost a steer, and they say we stole it. They found the
-place, with blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we did it.
-Oh, hide the meat! They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own,
-that he bought; he did not know anything about their steer!"
-
-"I shall not hide it!" cried Ramona, indignantly. "It is our own cow.
-Alessandro killed it to-day."
-
-"They won't believe you!" said the woman, in distress. "They'll take it
-all away. Oh, hide some of it!" And she dragged a part of it across the
-floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied.
-
-Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened
-the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed:
-"By God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest impudent
-thieves! Look at this woman, cutting it up! Put that down, will you?
-We'll save you the trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin'
-it! Fork over, now, every bit you've got, you--" And he called Ramona by
-a vile epithet.
-
-Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came
-forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. "Out of my house, you dogs
-of the white color!" she said. "This meat is our own; my husband killed
-the creature but this morning."
-
-Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they
-had all swarmed into the little room.
-
-"I say, Merrill," said one of them, "hold on; the squaw says her husband
-only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs."
-
-Ramona turned on him like lightning. "Are you liars, you all," she
-cried, "that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is
-not an Indian in this village would steal cattle!"
-
-A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and
-at that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian
-woman had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and
-lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there.
-"Perhaps, when you know Injun's well's I do," he said, "you won't be for
-believin' all they say! What's she got it hid under the bed for, if it
-was their own cow?" and he stooped to drag the meat out. "Give us a hand
-here, Jake!"
-
-"If you touch it, I will kill you!" cried Ramona, beside herself with
-rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming.
-
-"Hoity-toity!" cried Jake, stepping back; "that's a handsome squaw when
-she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She wasn't to
-blame; of course, she believes what her husband told her."
-
-"You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!" muttered Merrill, as he
-dragged the meat out from beneath the bed.
-
-"What is all this?" said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, turning,
-with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking on, with an
-expression which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave her a
-sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had his hand on his gun.
-"What is all this?" he repeated. He knew very well.
-
-"It's that Temecula man," said one of the men, in a low tone, to
-Merrill. "If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come
-here. You're up the wrong tree, sure!"
-
-Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to
-confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that
-he had made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him.
-Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which
-stood at the door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat
-rolled in the hide, he said: "There is the remainder of the beef.
-I killed the creature this morning, in the canon. I will take Senor
-Merrill to the place, if he wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed
-down in the willows yonder, yesterday."
-
-"That's so!" cried the men, gathering around him. "How did you know? Who
-did it?"
-
-Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her
-shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were
-cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look
-on; she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the
-type of outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt
-a certain enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse
-of searchers for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the
-stolen steer, he maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At
-last, angry, ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his
-obstinacy, they rode away. Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was
-trembling. Her hands were like ice.
-
-"Let us go to the mountain to-night!" she gasped. "Take me where I need
-never see a white face again!"
-
-A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as
-he did.
-
-"I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no
-house," he said; "and I must go and come many times, before all the
-things can be carried."
-
-"It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro," said Ramona,
-bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with
-which the man Jake had looked at her. "Oh! I cannot stay here!"
-
-"It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to
-take double at once; then we can go sooner."
-
-"Who was it stole that man's steer?" said Ramona. "Why did you not tell
-them? They looked as if they would kill you."
-
-"It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself
-came on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew very
-well, by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I tell? They
-think only Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the Mexicans
-steal more."
-
-"I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal
-cattle," said Ramona, indignantly.
-
-"That was not true, Majella," replied Alessandro, sadly. "When they
-are very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose many
-themselves, and they say it is not so much harm to take one when they
-can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded twenty steers for his
-own, last spring, when he knew they were Saboba cattle!"
-
-"Why did they not make him give them up?" cried Ramona.
-
-"Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no help
-for us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!"
-
-A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to
-Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was
-haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one
-pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of
-the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day
-she saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door,
-looked in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's
-instinct was right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his
-mind to settle in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and
-he wished to have an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his
-house. Over in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an
-Indian mistress for three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa
-Ysabel, he had given the woman a hundred dollars and a little house for
-herself and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but held herself,
-in consequence of this temporary connection with a white man, much above
-her Indian relatives and friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry
-her, she had replied scornfully that she would never marry an Indian;
-she might marry another white man, but an Indian,--never. Nobody had
-held his brother in any less esteem for this connection; it was quite
-the way in the country. And if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw
-he had ever seen, to come and live with him in a smaller fashion, he
-would consider himself a lucky man, and also think he was doing a good
-thing for the squaw. It was all very clear and simple in his mind;
-and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the village one morning, he
-overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound her on the
-subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona trembled as he
-approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at him; but he, in
-his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously.
-
-"Are you married to your husband?" he finally said. "It is but a poor
-place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with me, you
-shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos';
-and--" Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry which haunted
-his memory for years, Ramona sprang from his side as if to run; then,
-halting suddenly, she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath
-coming fast. "Beast!" she said, and spat towards him; then turned and
-fled to the nearest house, where she sank on the floor and burst into
-tears, saying that the man below there in the road had been rude to her.
-Yes, the women said, he was a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona
-said no word to Alessandro. She dared not; she believed he would kill
-Jake.
-
-When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and
-the indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: "I
-could have told you better than to try that woman. She's married, fast
-enough. There's plenty you can get, though, if you want 'em. They're
-first-rate about a house, and jest's faithful's dogs. You can trust 'em
-with every dollar you've got."
-
-From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she
-stood on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing
-around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce
-the sky, looking down upon the world,--it seemed the whole world,
-so limitless it stretched away at her feet,--feeling that infinite
-unspeakable sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which
-comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight,
-and cried: "At last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is
-freedom! This is joy!"
-
-"Can Majella be content?" he asked.
-
-"I can almost be glad, Alessandro!" she cried, inspired by the glorious
-scene. "I dreamed not it was like this!"
-
-It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to
-make it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the
-mountain's side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower
-than the eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of
-rocks and tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself
-made the southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly
-vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years
-on the mountain and not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out
-a crystal spring, which trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy
-green, the entire length of the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the
-lower end, and came out no more; many times Alessandro had searched for
-it lower down, but could find no trace of it. During the summer, when
-he was hunting with Jeff, he had several times climbed the wall and
-descended it on the inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran; and, to
-his joy, had found it the same in July as in January. Drought could not
-harm it, then. What salvation in such a spring! And the water was pure
-and sweet as if it came from the skies.
-
-A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening
-out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and
-under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations
-of Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone
-indeed, for it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that
-Indians had ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to
-be certain death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to
-go far up its sides.
-
-There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both
-Alessandro and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was
-soothed. She did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer
-to the sky. They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house,
-till the wheat and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised,
-when he came to the ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The
-valley thrust itself, in inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its
-southern wall; lovely sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to
-wound the soft, flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the
-planting was done, he began to fell trees for the house. No mournful
-gray adobe this time, but walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left
-on; alternate yellow and brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it.
-The roof, of thatch, tule, and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick,
-was carried out several feet in front of the house, making a sort of
-bower-like veranda, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once
-more Ramona would sit under a thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little
-corral for the sheep, and a rough shed for the pony, and the home was
-complete: far the prettiest home they had ever had. And here, in the
-sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant
-willow twigs a cradle. The one over which she had wept such bitter tears
-in the valley, they had burned the night before they left their Saboba
-home. It was in early autumn she sat plaiting this cradle. The ground
-around was strewn with wild grapes drying; the bees were feasting on
-them in such clouds that Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive
-them away, saying, as she did so, "Good bees, make our honey from
-something else; we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want
-these grapes for the winter;" and as she spoke, her imagination sped
-fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her, to
-give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of
-poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression could
-do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms.
-
-The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same
-whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona.
-She was friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully
-came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona
-saw in her always the picture of what her own mother might perchance
-be, wandering, suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning,
-filial instinct found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless,
-aged one.
-
-Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's
-birth. Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but
-Ramona felt no fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in
-his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles,
-"See, beloved! The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter
-again!"
-
-But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's
-face, he sighed, and said, "Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not
-yours!"
-
-"I am glad of it," cried Ramona. "I was glad the first minute I saw it."
-
-He shook his head. "It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,"
-he said. "They look ever on woe;" and he laid the baby back on Ramona's
-breast, and stood gazing sadly at her.
-
-"Dear Alessandro," said Ramona, "it is a sin to always mourn. Father
-Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a heavier cross
-would be laid on us. Worse things would come."
-
-"Yes," he said. "That is true. Worse things will come." And he walked
-away, with his head sunk deep on his breast.
-
-
-
-
-XXIV
-
-THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep.
-His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne,
-the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on
-the probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed
-itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might
-have saved him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained,
-reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell
-on what hour or what day her terrible fears first changed to an even
-more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread
-of which he had cried out the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon
-him. Strangely enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come,
-he did not know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness
-sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained situations;
-had no recollection of what had happened for an interval of time, longer
-or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort of sickness; he did not
-know that during those intervals his acts were the acts of a madman;
-never violent, aggressive, or harmful to any one; never destructive.
-It was piteous to see how in these intervals his delusions were always
-shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied
-that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off
-Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac
-swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly
-regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he believed
-he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw, where
-there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to
-passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on
-being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he
-suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose
-he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he
-buried his head in his hands. "What has happened to my memory?" he said.
-"I must be ill of a fever!" As he sat there, the goats, of their own
-accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of
-which stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up,
-said goodnaturedly, "All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my
-goats, but I thought you'd bring 'em back."
-
-Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not
-interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of
-the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best
-horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of the risk
-there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of wandering.
-His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness
-in which it left her, but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental
-disorder might at any time take a more violent and dangerous shape. This
-anxiety was all the more harrowing because she must keep it locked in
-her own breast, her wise and loving instinct telling her that nothing
-could be more fatal to him than the knowledge of his real condition.
-More than once he reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling
-off his face, crying aloud, "The Americans have found us out, Majella!
-They were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way." At such
-times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down and
-rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired, she would say,
-"You were all out of breath when you came in, dear. You must not climb
-so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so."
-
-In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed
-Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for
-him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her.
-But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And,
-still more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's
-knowing what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on
-this mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot.
-
-And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their
-fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner.
-The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the
-sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer.
-The spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew
-along its edges thick as in beds.
-
-The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its
-mother had never known sorrow. "One would think she had suckled pain,"
-thought Ramona, "so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin
-has kept her well."
-
-If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night
-and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the
-Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth
-of all their delicate chasing.
-
-At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San
-Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the
-baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the
-letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her
-from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what
-she should say and how she should send it,--she, who had never had in
-her loyal, transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since
-they were wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he
-would thank her.
-
-She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its
-being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen
-as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a
-confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete,
-it was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely
-wrought in open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed.
-No baby would there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and
-Alessandro had at last given his consent that the name should be
-Majella. It was a reluctant consent, yielded finally only to please
-Ramona; and, contrary to her wont, she had been willing in this instance
-to have her own wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon
-having the seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, "If I
-were to die," she thought, "how glad Alessandro would be, to have still
-a Majella!"
-
-All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated
-herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days
-away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for
-the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the
-appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety
-increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before
-he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the
-horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. "Why comes he riding
-like that?" she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw
-to her surprise that he was riding a new horse. "Why, Alessandro!" she
-cried. "What horse is this?"
-
-He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his
-own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect
-his thoughts. "Where is my horse, then?" he said.
-
-"My God! Alessandro," cried Ramona. "Take the horse back instantly. They
-will say you stole it."
-
-"But I left my pony there in the corral," he said. "They will know I
-did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I
-recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses."
-
-Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary
-punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. "Oh, let me take
-it back, dear!" she cried, "Let me go down with it. They will believe
-me."
-
-"Majella!" he exclaimed, "think you I would send you into the fold of
-the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I
-was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And
-that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am
-heavy with sleep."
-
-Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was
-evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of
-danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her
-own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse;
-Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for
-his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood
-in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for him. He recognized her
-good-will, and put his nose to her face. "It must be because he was
-black like Benito, that Alessandro took him," she thought. "Oh, Mary
-Mother, help us to get the creature safe back!" she said.
-
-When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced
-at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could
-Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point
-of waking him, when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs
-roused him instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran
-out to see what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,--only a
-moment, hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to
-hear a gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the
-same second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over
-Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the
-forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed
-to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he
-untied the black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and
-leaping into his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he
-rode away, he shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground,
-striving to lift Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing
-from the ghastly wounds. "That'll teach you damned Indians to leave
-off stealing our horses!" he cried, and with another volley of terrible
-oaths was out of sight.
-
-With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief,
-Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in
-hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been
-fatal, close to his heart,--the murderer aimed well; the after-shots,
-with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds
-Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and
-laid it over the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words
-she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father
-Junipero, when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the
-Indians, at San Diego. "Thank God." he said, "the ground is now watered
-by the blood of a martyr!"
-
-"The blood of a martyr!" The words seemed to float in the air; to
-cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. "My
-Alessandro!" she said. "Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed
-martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says." His hands were warm.
-She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching
-herself on the ground by his side, she threw one arm over him, and
-whispered in his ear, "My love, my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to
-Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My Alessandro! Is he not blest
-already? And soon we will be with him! The burdens were too great. He
-could not bear them!" Then waves of grief broke over her, and she sobbed
-convulsively; but still she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her
-feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither
-should she go for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the
-sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there
-on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out of the
-question. There was another Indian village nearer,--the village of the
-Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She had once been
-there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There was no human
-help nearer.
-
-Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him,
-whispered, "Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring
-friends." As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying
-by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet
-to follow her. "No, Capitan," she said; and leading him back to the
-body, she took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said,
-"Capitan, watch here." With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and
-stretched himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his
-eyes followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight.
-
-The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped,
-baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn,
-her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she
-made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur
-after spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her
-heart sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro
-had been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered
-wherever they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her
-that she was lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with
-Alessandro; for fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the
-baby's sake, she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just
-as it had grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before
-her, and was panting more from terror than from running, lights suddenly
-gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a
-few moments she was there.
-
-It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,--a cluster
-of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken ground,
-on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud
-and high-spirited,--veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and
-independent.
-
-Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been
-murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with
-her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place.
-The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona
-had taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon
-as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the
-floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in
-time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for
-it, or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion
-seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words
-enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and
-higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses,--some to go up and
-bring Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to
-Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of
-Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to
-refrain from such violence.
-
-"Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?" he said. "Will you
-leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all
-if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him."
-
-A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience
-had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
-that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like
-women, and do nothing, when a friend was murdered?
-
-"Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in
-vain," said the wise old man. "It is not sweet to me, any more than to
-you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you
-to go."
-
-The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned
-their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were
-to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more
-than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the
-valley. Alessandro should be avenged.
-
-As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he
-revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he
-would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than
-if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This
-Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to
-look after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows
-in San Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so
-far as to arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to
-Indians. If he were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might
-be troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make
-a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up
-at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man
-in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge
-Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender
-himself as having committed "justifiable homicide" on an Indian, or
-Mexican, he did net know which, who had stolen his horse. He told a
-plausible story. He professed not to know the man, or the place; but did
-not explain how it was, that, knowing neither, he had gone so direct to
-the spot.
-
-He said: "I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn,
-I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the
-horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I
-pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft
-ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very
-wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little
-ranch. As I came near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I
-discovered my horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or
-Mexican, I could not tell which, came out of the house, flourishing a
-large knife. I called out to him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered
-in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San
-Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still came towards me, brandishing the
-knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop,
-and I fired; still he did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not
-fall, I knocked him down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I
-shot him twice with my pistol."
-
-The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the
-prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six
-men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early
-the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When
-they reached the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was
-locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the day before, except a few
-blood-stains on the ground, where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed
-greatly relieved at this unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he
-found that Judge Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley
-that night, proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles
-from the Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright.
-He declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in the
-night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with him to
-guard him.
-
-At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and
-head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his
-jury, and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of
-the murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they
-ought not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had
-taken place, and that now no inquest could be held.
-
-Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and
-heard the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first
-arrival. Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high
-fever and delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it
-on her breast. She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking
-incessantly, clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling
-snatches of prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token
-of consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes
-hide it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her.
-
-Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined;
-but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona.
-
-Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place
-immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his
-request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time
-for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the
-Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It
-was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to
-last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from
-the door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously,
-were what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have
-spoken many words.
-
-The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a
-merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business,
-on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It
-was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the
-hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar
-himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This
-last outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been
-glad to have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts.
-But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as
-fixed standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of
-communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more
-than any man's political head was worth. The word "justice" had lost its
-meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The
-valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon
-others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without
-a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to
-a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was
-relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's
-counsel, that "the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable
-homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him."
-
-He comforted himself by thinking--what was no doubt true--that even if
-the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have been
-the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County jury
-that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if
-there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he
-derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also
-the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched
-Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death,
-could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have
-brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in
-possession of her senses.
-
-During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had
-seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His
-children knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife
-had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no
-one knew better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as
-incapable of stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar
-knew it; everybody knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits
-of wandering mind; and that when these half-crazed fits came on him,
-he was wholly irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of
-Farrar's deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from
-having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable
-rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what he did. "But he
-wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!" mused the judge.
-"He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white man down, that way."
-
-Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not
-shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if
-Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There
-might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered,
-unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in
-his own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The
-longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this
-purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would
-go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done.
-
-But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to
-Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way.
-
-
-
-
-XXV
-
-EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search
-for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the
-place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the
-town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the
-San Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him
-to search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another
-took refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then
-disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also;
-equally in vain.
-
-He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had
-heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain
-would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew.
-
-"But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn
-his hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter."
-
-"That might be," they said; "nobody had ever heard of any such thing,
-however;" and very much they all wondered what it was that made the
-handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian.
-
-Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he
-lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had
-sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he
-heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely
-watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager,
-searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children
-knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find.
-Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could
-look like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made
-no confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for
-an Indian named Alessandro Assis.
-
-Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place,
-and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the
-Franciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California
-coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard
-Father Salvierderra say that there were in the neighborhood of each of
-the old Missions Indian villages, or families still living. He thought
-it not improbable that, from Alessandro's father's long connection with
-the San Luis Rey Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of these
-Indians. He would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched;
-no Indian unquestioned.
-
-San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San
-Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He
-had spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found
-Indians; miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart
-ached, and he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the
-old Mission buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder.
-Now Felipe understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and
-why his mother had been full of such fierce indignation against the
-heretic usurpers and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans
-once held. He could not understand why the Church had submitted,
-without fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the
-Missions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who
-had clung to their congregations to the last, and died at their posts.
-At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father
-Sarria, who had died there of starvation. "He gave us all he had, to the
-last," said the old man. "He lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did;
-and one morning, before he had finished the mass, he fell forward at the
-altar and was dead. And when we put him in the grave, his body was only
-bones, and no flesh; he had gone so long without food, to give it to
-us."
-
-At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew
-very little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they
-said. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They
-did not understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and
-the longer he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever
-gone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers
-at the College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father
-Salvierderra the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe,
-that no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to
-the last, they said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get
-any certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day
-before he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian
-monk, to whom he was greatly attached.
-
-In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible
-omen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart
-than before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown,
-unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not give up the
-search. As he journeyed southward, he began to find persons who had
-known of Alessandro; and still more, those who had known his father, old
-Pablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since
-the driving out of his people from Temecula; there was no knowing where
-any of those Temecula people were now. They had scattered "like a flock
-of ducks," one Indian said,--"like a flock of ducks after they are
-fired into. You'd never see all those ducks in any one place again. The
-Temecula people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San Diego
-County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, however. The
-Senor would better see him. He no doubt knew about Alessandro. He was
-living in a room in the old Mission building. The priest had given it
-to him for taking care of the chapel and the priest's room, and a little
-rent besides. He was a hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; he
-would take the last dollar from a poor man."
-
-It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he
-could not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he
-had gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large
-corner room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The
-room was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous
-fireplace; a few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these
-lay the woman, evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the
-feet; the wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side
-of the wall; there was not an article of furniture. "Heavens!" thought
-Felipe, as he entered, "a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole
-as this!"
-
-There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the
-fire. "I am sorry I have no candle, Senor," said the man, as he came
-forward. "My wife is sick, and we are very poor."
-
-"No matter," said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. "I only want to
-ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me."
-
-"Yes, Senor," the man replied in a dogged tone,--no man of Temecula
-could yet hear the word without a pang,--"I was of Temecula."
-
-"I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I
-suppose," said Felipe, eagerly.
-
-At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second
-a bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But
-the swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which
-he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had
-recognized him. "Ha, ha!" he thought to himself. "Senor Felipe Moreno,
-you come to the wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!"
-
-It was Antonio,--Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing;
-Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a
-marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Moreno
-house should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on
-the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral
-a beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about
-it,--Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in
-his forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a
-horse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now,
-though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him.
-Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he
-get from Antonio!
-
-"Yes, Senor, I knew him," he replied.
-
-"Do you know where he is now?"
-
-"No, Senor."
-
-"Do you know where he went, from Temecula?"
-
-"No, Senor."
-
-"A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for
-him."
-
-"I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey."
-
-"Where did you see him last?"
-
-"In Temecula."
-
-"Was he alone?"
-
-"Yes, Senor."
-
-"Did you ever hear of his being married?"
-
-"No, Senor."
-
-"Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?"
-
-"Like this, Senor," with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. "Most
-of us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan
-Grande, some way down into Lower California."
-
-Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the
-man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he
-said, "I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly
-disappointed.
-
-"I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno," thought Antonio. "I am sorry,
-Senor," he said.
-
-It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous
-gold-piece, and said, "Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see
-you so poorly off."
-
-The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful
-did he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they
-had fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the
-first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second
-time help drifted away from Ramona.
-
-At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence
-of Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst
-forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been
-alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale,
-where he had the promise of work.
-
-How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth.
-After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed
-the time so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a
-terrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week
-after Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus,
-alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and
-she had lent him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but
-they had never sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead,
-she had no more doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he
-would have come back to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that
-ever lived, was Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he
-not found him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro
-and his father. If there had been, it would have been better for their
-people. "If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you," she said, "it
-would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of
-their homes here."
-
-"But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?" asked Felipe.
-"The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myself
-have lost half my estate in the same way."
-
-"Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!" she said.
-"'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said."
-
-Felipe asked to see the violin. "But that is not Alessandro's," he
-exclaimed. "I have seen his."
-
-"No!" she said. "Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the
-Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were
-driven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money,
-if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come along
-yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money
-back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long before
-this."
-
-Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell
-her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at
-first. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang
-to her feet, and cried: "If he's got that girl with him, he's hiding
-somewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding,
-every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your breath asking any
-questions of any of them. They will die before they will tell you one
-thing. They are as secret as the grave. And they, every one of them,
-worshipped Alessandro. You see they thought he would be over them, after
-Pablo, and they were all proud of him because he could read and
-write, and knew more than most of them. If I were in your place," she
-continued, "I would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now
-it might just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here,
-hid somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged him to
-stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, though,
-where he could possibly have left her while he came here."
-
-Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished
-as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might
-yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.
-
-"If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel," he said
-as he rode away; "and we will come by this road and stop to see you."
-And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San
-Pasquale.
-
-But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a
-perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the
-village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the
-remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro,
-Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,--the family of a man
-who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village
-stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found
-that there was no help, that the American had his papers from the
-land-office, in all due form, certifying that the land was his, had
-given the man his option of paying for the house or having it burned
-down. The man had bought the house; and it was only the week before
-Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and
-chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more,
-the people said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidro
-did not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He
-went to the north. That was all they knew.
-
-To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly
-searched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the
-house in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of
-the valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in
-it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley.
-The American had paid Alessandro something for it,--they did not know
-how much; but Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they
-had listened to him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it
-was too late for most of them to get anything for their farms. One man
-had taken the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's
-house because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. They
-were utterly disheartened, broken-spirited.
-
-In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses.
-"Where are you going?" he asked of several.
-
-"Who knows, Senor?" was their reply. "Where can we go? There is no
-place."
-
-When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe
-heard her spoken of as "Majella," his perplexity deepened. Finally he
-asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona.
-
-"Never."
-
-What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another
-Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought
-himself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro
-had married this wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both
-like and unlike Ramona?
-
-Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara.
-
-Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here,
-as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at
-his first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had
-only just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was
-away in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do
-equally well, to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought
-out the tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath
-coming fast with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father
-Gaspara's hasty and blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names,
-"Alessandro Assis and Majella Fa--"
-
-Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have
-been married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom
-Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on
-which Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt
-compassion, or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what
-lonely, forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona?
-
-Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching
-farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one
-more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between
-San Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of
-the marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna.
-
-It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro
-Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian
-converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might
-have been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were
-dozens everywhere.
-
-This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro
-Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book.
-
-As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and
-woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children,
-two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles
-that their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was
-crying bitterly. "More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!"
-thought Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a piece
-of gold. She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money had
-fallen from the skies. "Thanks! Thanks, Senor!" she exclaimed; and the
-man coming up to Felipe said also, "God reward you, Senor! That is more
-money than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I
-could get work?"
-
-Felipe longed to say, "Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have
-work!" In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought,
-for both the man and the woman had good faces,--were young and strong.
-But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for
-its dwindled fortunes. "No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not," he
-answered. "I live a long way from here. Where were you thinking of
-going?"
-
-"Somewhere in San Jacinto," said the man. "They say the Americans have
-not come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks,
-Senor; may the saints reward you!"
-
-"San Jacinto!" After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his
-thoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known well
-in many a distant horizon. "Juan Can," he said one day, "are there many
-Indians in San Jacinto?"
-
-"The mountain?" said Juan Can.
-
-"Ay, I suppose, the mountain," said Felipe. "What else is there?"
-
-"The valley, too," replied Juan. "The San Jacinto Valley is a fine,
-broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is
-mostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing.
-There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the
-San Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is a big
-village; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are
-fierce, Senor!"
-
-The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one
-mentioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps
-there were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's
-impressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see
-him both lifted up and cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little
-village street of San Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against
-the southern sky, a superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights
-from turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to
-himself, "She is there! I have found her!"
-
-The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt
-Ri, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden.
-"San Jacinto?" he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip.
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came
-whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping
-being knocked down. "That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet,
-with those black devils of his, if he don't look out," he muttered, as
-he recovered his balance.
-
-Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his
-horse's sides, galloped after them. "Baba! by God!" he cried aloud in
-his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster,
-shouting as he rode, "Stop that man! Stop that man with the black
-horses!"
-
-Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba
-as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had
-happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken
-him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own
-horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, "Baba! Baba!" Baba knew his
-voice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For
-the second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It
-had never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title
-to Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise,
-therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud
-voice, looking suspiciously at Jos, "How did you get him?"
-
-Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor
-could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl.
-Before even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and
-took a long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said:
-"Wall, Senor,--I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,--it would take
-right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the
-other one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em."
-
-Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona,
-Jos saw it, and chuckled.
-
-"Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,"
-he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and
-substance of what he had just said, adding: "They belong to an Indian
-over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his
-wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had been
-hers ever sence she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so
-much of hosses as they did."
-
-Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon,
-throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, "Follow
-along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man."
-
-Found! Found,--the saints be praised,--at last! How should he tell this
-man fast enough? How should he thank him enough?
-
-Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: "I can't explain to you; I
-can't tell you. Bless you forever,--forever! It must be the saints led
-you here!"
-
-"Oh, Lawd!" thought Jos; "another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not,
-Senor," he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. "It wur Tom Wurmsee led me;
-I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon."
-
-"Take me home with you to your house," said Felipe, still trembling with
-excitement; "we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all
-you can tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over
-California."
-
-Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet
-Ramona, he was sure. "I'll take you straight there," he said; "but first
-I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me."
-
-The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated
-scene of an arrest for horse-stealing. "Good for you, Tennessee!" and,
-"Fork over that black horse, Jos!" echoed from the departing groups.
-Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford
-to slight so notable an occasion as this.
-
-As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his
-mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her
-head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair.
-
-"Why, thar's mammy!" he exclaimed. "What ever hez gone wrong naow?"
-
-Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching
-her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, "Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar!
-Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!"
-
-Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound
-of the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's
-side. "Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro's
-got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz an
-Injun come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent."
-
-"Good God! Alessandro killed!" burst from Felipe's lips in a
-heart-rending voice.
-
-Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was
-almost beyond him. "Oh, Lawd!" he gasped. Turning to Felipe, "Thet's
-mammy," he said. "She wuz real fond o' both on 'em." Turning to his
-mother, "This hyar's her brother," he said. "He jest knowed me by Baba,
-hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar."
-
-Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she
-sobbed out: "Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a
-Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less
-brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy,
-ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How air
-we ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd never
-live arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobody
-git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!"
-
-Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos.
-"Tell me in Spanish," he said. "I cannot understand."
-
-As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and
-incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, "Too late!
-Too late!" He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have
-survived the shock of seeing her husband murdered. "Too late! Too late!"
-he cried, as he staggered into the house. "She has surely died of the
-sight."
-
-"I allow she didn't die, nuther," said Jos; "not ser long ez she hed
-thet young un to look arter!"
-
-"Yer air right, Jos!" said Aunt Ri. "I allow yer air right. Thar
-couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby
-'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's
-some comfort."
-
-Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he
-said, "How far is it?"
-
-"Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz," said Jos; "'n'
-the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz
-livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto
-Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro."
-
-How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus
-familiarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, and
-who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death!
-Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, "We
-must go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?"
-
-"Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--" began Jos,
-energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he
-completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at
-Felipe's command.
-
-"Jos! He's got ter take me!" cried Aunt Ri. "I allow I ain't never gwine
-ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be
-ez she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by
-hisself."
-
-Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed
-himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.
-
-"Yeow tell him, Jos," she said, "I can't never git used ter bein' called
-Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest
-wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like
-I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust.
-I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these
-low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't stand
-bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in
-Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout
-sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier
-ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either
-un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest."
-
-Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San
-Jacinto. She laughed.
-
-"Don't yeow be a mite oneasy," she said. "I bet yeow I'd go clean back
-ter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n
-my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't
-begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the
-mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll
-be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get
-hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd."
-
-Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence
-enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their
-thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at
-first appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical
-purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a
-bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.
-
-It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made
-the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out,
-Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, "Thet's lucky."
-
-"Yes," replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had
-spoken, "it is good. It shows to us the way."
-
-"Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!" thought Aunt Ri.
-
-Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were
-hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when
-Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one
-they had seen for many miles, said: "We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno
-the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to
-git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able
-business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind
-o' people they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their
-time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long
-afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's
-work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The
-fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em
-up thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but
-thar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear
-sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed
-theirselves tew. They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes
-washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys,
-terrible pious. I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin'
-in God; I don't allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but
-they don't worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much.
-Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech
-doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n'
-I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these Merrills air reel
-nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!--Lawd! I don't believe
-he's understood a word I've said, naow!" thought Aunt Ri to herself,
-suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face.
-"'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks
-thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I
-allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between
-folks thet doos!"
-
-When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the
-mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from
-taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses
-like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel
-road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and
-tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois.
-Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.
-
-"I'm gwine whar he goes," she said grimly to herself. "I ain't a gwine
-ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along."
-
-Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road
-had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at
-perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till
-it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill.
-Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen
-miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and
-grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern
-slopes. From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, led
-south, and up to the Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey,
-at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the
-country could find the last part of the way without a guide. Finally
-it was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in this
-capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed
-to the road. By the help of these the terrible ascent was made without
-difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the
-humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail.
-
-Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have
-experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the
-precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened,
-until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines
-were grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper
-curve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was
-their size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top,
-as by myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored
-away an acorn,--the woodpeckers' granaries.
-
-"Look at thet, naow!" exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; "an' thar's
-folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumb
-to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched
-with furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar
-Mexican I'm er travellin' with."
-
-"That's so!" replied Sam Merrill. "When we fust got here, I thought I'd
-ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my
-meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their
-lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned
-the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have."
-
-The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she
-chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter!
-But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he
-would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm
-to her again.
-
-They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early
-dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their
-carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be
-seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by
-four horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitation
-into which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had
-by no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new
-occurrence. The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had
-been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the
-flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan
-had so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth
-again this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering
-faces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the
-Capitan's house.
-
-Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and
-contempt. "Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid
-eyes on," she said in a low tone to Merrill, "I allow these yere air the
-wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit,
-if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I
-allow."
-
-"Oh, they're friendly enough," laughed Merrill. "They're all stirred
-up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look
-so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a
-firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin'
-the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good
-horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got
-out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean,
-low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead;
-but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his
-horse, that he didn't know what he did."
-
-Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had
-leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan,
-had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that
-she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if
-Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was
-conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not
-even the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now,
-or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just
-heard. The words seemed to choke her as she began. "Young man," she
-said, "I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz
-great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet
-way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,--he's jest abaout yeour
-age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,--ef I should hear him
-say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by
-lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I
-sh'dn't!"
-
-What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never
-known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door,
-beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly
-rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she
-crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and
-said, "Come, speak to her." He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on
-the floor. Was that Ramona,--that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes
-glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands
-of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and
-it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had
-exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain.
-
-Aunt Ri burst into tears. "Oh, Lawd!" she said. "Ef I had some 'old man'
-hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't
-growin' not more'n er mile back." And without a second look, or another
-word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said,
-speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: "Yeow
-jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allow
-I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yer
-hosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it," she cried, leaning
-out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. "Stop! Here
-'tis!" she cried. "I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along
-hyar;" and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining,
-gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely
-on their way back. "This'll cure her, ef ennything will," she said, as
-she entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes
-roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them.
-"She's bad," she said, her lips trembling; "but, 'never say die!' ez
-allers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n'
-yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone."
-
-Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's
-nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it
-between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own
-hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and
-life won. Before night Ramona was asleep.
-
-Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers,
-each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona
-slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she
-had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a
-niche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just
-smouldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their
-poverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and
-Ramona during the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's
-hold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's
-picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were
-alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees,
-and a low-whispered murmur was heard.
-
-For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. "Oh,
-Lawd!" she thought, "the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!" Then a
-sudden revulsion seized her. "I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one
-out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I
-allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!"
-And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side
-slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it
-in the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and
-a lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.
-
-
-
-
-XXVI
-
-THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light
-streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt
-Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at
-them.
-
-"Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep
-agin, honey," said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's
-eyelids, and compelling them down. "We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n'
-we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter
-sleep, honey."
-
-The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way,
-and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove
-to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint
-question that came,--"Felipe?"
-
-"Yes, dear! I am here, too," breathed Felipe; "go to sleep. We will not
-leave you!"
-
-And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her
-life.
-
-"Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better," said Aunt Ri, with a sigh,
-deep-drawn like a groan. "I allow I dread ter see her reely come to.
-'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!"
-
-But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering
-in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle
-constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made;
-this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were
-those of old, who "had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being
-destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains,
-and in dens and caves of the earth."
-
-When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific
-smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, "How did you find me,
-dear Felipe?" It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any
-sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an
-audible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again,
-and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes,
-she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, "Alessandro." A convulsion
-passed over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.
-
-Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly
-responded: "Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n'
-Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n'
-well, 'n' tote ye out er this--" Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her
-vocabulary answered her need at that moment. "I allow ye kin go 'n a
-week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter
-talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey.
-We'll look arter everythin'."
-
-Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips
-framed the words, "With you?"
-
-"Yes, dear, home with me," said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. "I
-have been searching for you all this time."
-
-An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How
-often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the
-sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than
-continued anxiety. "I am alone, dear Ramona," he whispered. "There is no
-one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead
-a year."
-
-The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. "Dear Felipe!"
-she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one
-inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for
-Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to "take care of Felipe"!
-Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and
-duty, on the side of life,--the battle was won, and won quickly, too.
-
-To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on
-Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious
-reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb
-by means of which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made
-repeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be
-that there had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would
-hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she
-reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water
-and "old man," which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which,
-when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some
-significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the
-leaves.
-
-Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in
-the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like
-water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything,
-anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the
-atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He
-had travelled all over California, with four horses, in search of her.
-He was only waiting till she was well, to take her to his home in the
-south; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her
-husband, and have him hanged,--yes, hanged! Small doubt about that;
-or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor
-would see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these
-tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for
-well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but the
-bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians in
-their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their memories were long.
-Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him on
-that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himself
-knew,--nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitter
-whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with
-no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer
-himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and
-jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, and
-that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, and
-those were, "Senor, I will explain;" and that even after the first shot
-had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he had
-still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted deprecatingly,
-and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead.
-Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that killing an
-Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish in
-Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall
-this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who
-had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more
-unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another
-thing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by
-everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of
-it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely
-investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only
-clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that
-the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in
-the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a
-horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more
-than once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact
-of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell
-against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was
-as cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate
-in human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and
-apprehension, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever,
-at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the
-way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well
-he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that
-Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries
-relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the
-matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar.
-And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of
-the case, and went on to say, "If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's,
-the wife's, must be false," and "at any rate, her testimony would not be
-worth a straw with any jury," Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, "She
-of whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find
-that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a
-San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a
-brute!" and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise
-thing Farrar had done in making his escape.
-
-When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up
-her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young
-Merrill. "Fled ther country, hez he?" she said. "Wall, he kin flee ez
-many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow
-folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I
-say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef
-'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n'
-don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's
-lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd
-arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in
-hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't
-want to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to
-see no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar
-Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit,
-quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound
-he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet
-Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long
-arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow.
-He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a
-mite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East
-Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence
-between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o'
-ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then
-the women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they got
-fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they
-fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he
-picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed
-him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever
-did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free;
-'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like
-he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he,
-'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sed
-he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the
-country's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n'
-I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but
-he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with
-him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's
-ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but
-I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy,
-'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz
-bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,--I heern him,--'Wal,'
-sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll
-never git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.'
-Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz.
-'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said
-'t wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this
-miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er
-shot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery."
-
-Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words.
-They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a
-stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character
-of the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such
-strata,--the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by
-successions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological
-deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened and
-ruffianly nature often remains--its forms not yet quite fossilized--a
-realm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, which
-the boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great
-catastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into
-the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his
-childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is
-thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and
-speech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was much
-in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Merrill. He was not
-many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest New
-England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as
-in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander yet at heart.
-
-"That's so, Aunt Ri!" he exclaimed. "That's so! I don't s'pose a man
-that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in
-the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin'
-business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you
-can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin'
-had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!"
-
-A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. "I hain't no
-patience left with yer," she said, "er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez
-ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun,
-he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef
-he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral,
-same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n'
-the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter
-see?"
-
-"Left his own horse, so he did!" retorted Merrill. "A poor, miserable,
-knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse
-was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that."
-
-"Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin'," persisted Aunt
-Ri. "I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he
-wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter
-hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left
-his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n'
-fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow
-me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I
-allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;" and nothing that Merrill said
-could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death.
-But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech
-eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The
-last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in
-the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. "I'll never hear a
-word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day," she said. "The way the
-pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony,
-beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most.
-'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till
-Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha'
-taken care on her till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took
-care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing
-left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take a
-lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done
-talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all
-thet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody
-b'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet
-way tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull
-world could see what I've seen! Thet's all!"
-
-It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed.
-Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a
-protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's
-and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet
-conscious of a loss,--of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of
-the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their
-hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as
-their sister,--one of them; as such, she would have had share in all
-their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship
-and deprivation; and she was being borne away from it, like one rescued,
-not so much from death, as from a life worse than death.
-
-The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She
-embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days
-suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe
-that Ramona's should not suffer. "Sister, you have given me my child,"
-she cried; "I can never thank you; I will pray for you all my life."
-
-She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a
-little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than
-hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice
-spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had
-characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene
-and sunny then,--serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little
-duties,--had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm,
-if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did not
-desert her even now.
-
-Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry,
-humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. "I allow I donno but
-I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew," she said, "ef I wuz ter live
-'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T
-beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would
-say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin
-see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv
-prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet
-keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n
-it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin
-Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these
-days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!"
-
-The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a
-mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go
-home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a
-treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at
-it. "Dear girl," he thought; "it is the nearest she has ever come to
-knowing what a mother's love is like!" And he lingered in San Bernardino
-week after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough
-to bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying
-was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering
-companionship.
-
-Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife.
-She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful
-morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her
-favorite pattern, the "hit-er-miss" pattern, as she called it; no set
-stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the
-indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a
-single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious
-blending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject,
-too, of not unphilosophical reflection.
-
-"Wall," she said, "it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's
-'hit' oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way
-ther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when
-they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter
-be with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss'
-pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon
-how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd
-think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought
-'t wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a
-'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't
-never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest
-ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come,
-'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 't
-done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thet
-lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest ther
-wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it's
-what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz
-told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn fool
-gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll take ther
-'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along."
-
-When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent
-arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the
-time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was
-burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to
-give, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent
-himself at home.
-
-"I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet," she
-said; "I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered.
-We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother.
-He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off."
-
-Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not
-come to see him; he had expected to hear from her.
-
-"Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she
-wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in
-talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to
-no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so."
-
-"Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me," said the Agent. "I was
-going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring
-the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed."
-
-"Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns,
-I notice," broke in Aunt Ri; "hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the
-marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour
-doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell--them
-wuz thar words--thet sold whiskey ter Injuns."
-
-"That's so!" said the Agent. "So I am; I am determined to break up this
-vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do
-anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and
-a shame."
-
-"Thet's so, I allow ter yeow," said Aunt Ri. "Thar ain't any gainsayin'
-thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin'
-whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes
-'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet."
-
-"That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri," he said. "I
-have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have."
-
-"What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?" broke in Aunt Ri.
-
-The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical
-method of questioning was inconvenient.
-
-"I only mean that they are under my charge," he said. "I don't mean that
-they belong to me in any way."
-
-"Wall, I allow not," retorted Aunt Ri, "enny more 'n I dew. They air
-airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've
-been 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had
-my eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet
-they call the Agency doctor,--what's he got ter do?"
-
-"To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick," replied
-the Agent, promptly.
-
-"Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why
-Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,--thet's why he put his name
-down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz
-high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out
-er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore;
-'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n'
-the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N'
-they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died
-afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the
-rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells
-till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I
-wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow.
-Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer
-knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go."
-
-"No, Aunt Ri," said the Agent; "I could not have done that; he is only
-required to doctor such Indians as come here."
-
-"I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all," said Aunt
-Ri; "'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I
-expect he gits well paid?" and she paused for an answer. None came. The
-Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary
-the Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard
-prescriptions to Indians he never saw.
-
-After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: "Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I
-allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these
-Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em
-'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to
-giv' 'em ennything,--food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em."
-
-"I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times
-of special suffering;" replied the Agent, "a very little; and the
-Department has appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not
-enough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are in
-the main self-supporting."
-
-"Thet's jest it," persisted Aunt Ri. "Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n'
-thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter
-hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer
-can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say
-killin' 'em,--ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin'
-whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say--" Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to
-seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence
-very differently from her first impulse,--"I'm free ter say I shouldn't
-like ter stan' in yer shoes."
-
-"You may very well say that, Aunt Ri," laughed the Agent, complacently.
-"It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least
-satisfactory."
-
-"Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin'," rejoined the
-indefatigable Aunt Ri; "but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so
-be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'." And she looked
-honestly puzzled.
-
-"Look there, Aunt Ri!" said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of
-books and papers. "All those to be gone through with, and a report to be
-made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I
-buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for
-less pay."
-
-"I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then," retorted Aunt Ri,
-good-naturedly satirical, "ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!" And she
-took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and
-function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.
-
-Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a
-dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito,
-gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed
-gliding; Felipe by her side,--the dear Felipe,--his eyes wearing the
-same bright and loving look as of old,--what strange thing was it which
-had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one
-in her arms,--she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but
-her nerves were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful
-anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness
-of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be long
-before Ramona would fully realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst
-anguish was yet to come.
-
-Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with
-a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid,
-always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each
-thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he
-knew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards
-him. "Grateful to me!" he thought. "To me, who might have spared her all
-this woe if I had been strong!"
-
-Never would Felipe forgive himself,--no, not to the day of his death.
-His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a
-pitiful thing was that to render!
-
-As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that
-she had shed tears. At last he said to her: "Dearest Ramona, do not fear
-to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better
-for you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to
-wounds."
-
-"I do not think so, Felipe," replied Ramona. "Tears are only selfish and
-weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always
-to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also
-that I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father
-Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how
-much we might be suffering."
-
-"That is more than human power can do!" said Felipe.
-
-"I think not," replied Ramona. "If it were, Father Salvierderra would
-not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile
-his face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years
-before he died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep,
-from the great wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never
-saw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone,
-Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years
-in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought
-that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts
-into my mind. I hope I can tell them to my child when she is old enough.
-She will understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's
-soul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I
-speak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and
-the sky and the sun, and all trees know them."
-
-When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He
-himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke
-it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There
-were to be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely,
-sorrowing, sunny sister of his.
-
-When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch
-for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can
-heading the group; only two absent,--Margarita and Luigo. They had been
-married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where
-Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd.
-
-On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting.
-Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the
-home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of
-what their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed
-that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would
-be terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painful
-associations. "And the Senora gone, too," said one of the outdoor hands,
-as they were talking it over; "it's not the same place at all that it
-was when the Senora was here."
-
-"Humph!" muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than
-ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. "Humph! that's
-all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you!
-We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that,
-my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the
-Senorita than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day.
-They can have theirs now."
-
-When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona--pale, but with her
-own old smile on her face--coming towards them with her babe in her
-arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in the
-group.
-
-Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards
-her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, "I am sure you will
-love my baby, Marda!"
-
-"Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!" they cried; and closed
-up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her
-from one to another.
-
-Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, "Give her
-to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;" and she moved
-toward the inner door.
-
-"This way, dear; this way," cried Felipe. "It is Father Salvierderra's
-room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the
-baby!"
-
-"Thanks, kind Felipe!" cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her
-words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in
-returning,--the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It would
-be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would never
-enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!
-
-Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom
-hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face
-of this beautiful woman,--so much more beautiful now than she had been
-before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought
-her changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which
-would for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's
-thoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There
-was a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by
-the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted.
-It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own
-humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply
-to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect
-that it was "a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita
-years ago,--what if he were to do it yet?" she said, also under her
-breath. "It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself!
-Not but that it would be a great thing if it could be!"
-
-And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often
-had come about,--the presence of a little child in her house, on the
-veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence.
-But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly
-had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished
-Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the
-house,--Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own,
-he could not have felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little
-thing had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in
-his arms, one little hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips,
-and kissed again and again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in
-Felipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the
-fondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month
-by month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's
-life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant
-fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandro
-did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: it meant an
-unchanged relation.
-
-One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,--the concealed treasure. A
-sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of
-it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he
-delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held
-his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before
-Ramona interrupted him. "Oh, yes!" she said. "I knew about those things;
-your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish
-sometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given
-to the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with
-them if I married against your mother's wishes."
-
-It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: "Dear Ramona,
-they were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died;
-and I suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me
-about them just as she was dying."
-
-"But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?" asked Ramona,
-simply.
-
-"Why?" cried Felipe. "Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only.
-I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that
-you were dead and had left no children."
-
-Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. "You have not read
-the Senora Ortegna's letter?" she said.
-
-"Yes, I have," he replied, "every word of it."
-
-"But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against
-the Senora Moreno's will."
-
-Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? "No, dear," he said, "that was not
-the word. It was, if you married unworthily."
-
-Ramona reflected. "I never recollected the words," she said. "I was
-too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry
-unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to
-take them for my child?"
-
-"Perfectly," said Felipe.
-
-"Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?"
-
-"I am sure of it, dear."
-
-"I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did
-not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was
-why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one
-thing,--a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it;
-but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a
-half-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved
-sorely for it."
-
-The next day Ramona said to Felipe: "Dear Felipe, I have thought it all
-over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to
-have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to
-say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,--to Father
-Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would rather
-have them go."
-
-"Yes, dear," said Felipe; "and then we will put them in some safer
-place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one
-has stolen them all these years!"
-
-And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written
-bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing
-we call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we
-can have much to do with its shaping.
-
-          *****
-
-Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,--smoothly to the eye. Nothing
-could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days,
-with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all.
-Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was
-not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth,
-from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at
-home and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running,
-frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely
-drifted into this happy shelter,--the little Ramona. As unconscious of
-aught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was
-her delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been
-from the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set
-free from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.
-
-Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an
-added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when
-she felt that she for the first time waked to the realization of her
-bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out,
-mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled
-with this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly
-to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of
-joyfulness. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till
-she more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the night
-in prayer, as it had been his wont to do.
-
-No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them;
-and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new
-victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first
-dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted
-lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the
-world where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her
-every act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for
-him, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, all
-Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy.
-
-There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning
-desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life
-in California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims,
-standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their
-boasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and
-development,--all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for
-money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour,
-thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and
-gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life
-under the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his
-hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted.
-He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish
-tongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for
-Mexico,--for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an
-exile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree,
-and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this
-change, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing
-to go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had
-known nothing but sufferings.
-
-At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried:
-"Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not
-think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful
-dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico."
-
-And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and
-wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter
-the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of
-race.
-
-The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he
-could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich
-American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in
-the valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received
-for it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the
-realization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour
-that this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new
-expression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An
-untried future beckoned,--a future which she would embrace and conquer
-for her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the
-first time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new
-love? She could not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw
-it, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait
-long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without
-hope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But
-patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day when
-Felipe first thought to himself, "She will yet be mine," it grew harder,
-and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his love in words.
-Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and comfort to him,
-grew at times intolerable; and again and again her gentle spirit
-was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had displeased him, so
-strangely did he conduct himself.
-
-He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his
-passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there
-came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.
-
-It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on
-board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back
-to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in
-the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to
-float up around her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed
-at her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she
-put her hand in his, and said, as she had said hundreds of times before,
-"Dear Felipe, how good you are!" he clasped her hands wildly, and cried,
-"Ramona, my love! Oh, can you not love me?"
-
-The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona
-gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she
-knew all. "Felipe! My brother!" she cried, and stretched out her hands
-as if in warning.
-
-"No! I am not your brother!" he cried. "I will not be your brother! I
-would rather die!"
-
-"Felipe!" cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to
-himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain.
-
-"Forgive me, my sweet one!" he exclaimed. "I will never say it again.
-But I have loved you so long--so long!"
-
-Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the
-shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet
-gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme
-moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole
-past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. "Dear Felipe," she said,
-clasping her hands, "I have been very selfish. I did not know--"
-
-"Of course you did not, love," said Felipe. "How could you? But I have
-never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to
-love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have
-spoken; I cannot hide it any more."
-
-Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. "I have always
-loved you," she said. "I love no other living man; but, Felipe,"--her
-voice sank to a solemn whisper,--"do you not know, Felipe, that part of
-me is dead,--dead? can never live again? You could not want me for your
-wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!"
-
-Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. "You
-would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife," he cried.
-"Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself
-dead or alive!"
-
-Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not
-know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This
-gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she
-would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only
-the broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of
-passion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,--ah, how unlike was she
-to that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, "Take
-me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!"
-
-Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with
-infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe
-loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved
-her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words
-having been spoken? "I will be your wife, dear Felipe," she said,
-speaking solemnly, slowly, "if you are sure it will make you happy, and
-if you think it is right."
-
-"Right!" ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon.
-"Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will
-forget you ever said that part of you was dead!"
-
-A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it
-might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.
-
-General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of
-Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after
-their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda
-and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them.
-The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly
-enhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young
-Senora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled
-with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was
-distinguished in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life.
-Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood
-like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each
-other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice
-saying, "Majella!" This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart had
-kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,--loyal, loving,
-serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.
-
-Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all
-beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the
-most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one
-who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the
-Senor,--Ramona,--Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA ***
-
-***** This file should be named 2802.txt or 2802.zip *****
-This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
-        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/0/2802/
-
-Produced by David Reed
-
-Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
-will be renamed.
-
-Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
-one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
-(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
-permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
-set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
-copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
-protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
-Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
-charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
-do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
-rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
-such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
-research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
-practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
-subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
-redistribution.
-
-
-
-*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
-
-THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
-PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
-
-To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
-distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
-(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
-Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
-Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
-http://gutenberg.org/license).
-
-
-Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works
-
-1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
-and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
-(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
-the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
-all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
-If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
-terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
-entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
-
-1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
-used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
-agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
-things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
-paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
-and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
-
-1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
-or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
-collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
-individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
-located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
-copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
-works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
-are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
-Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
-freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
-this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
-the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
-keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
-Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
-
-1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
-what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
-a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
-the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
-before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
-creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
-Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
-the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
-States.
-
-1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
-
-1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
-access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
-whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
-phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
-Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
-copied or distributed:
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
-from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
-posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
-and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
-or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
-with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
-work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
-through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
-Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
-1.E.9.
-
-1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
-with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
-must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
-terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
-to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
-permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
-
-1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
-work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
-
-1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
-electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
-prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
-active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm License.
-
-1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
-compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
-word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
-distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
-"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
-posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
-you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
-copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
-request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
-form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
-
-1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
-performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
-unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
-access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
-that
-
-- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
-     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
-     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
-     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
-     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
-     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
-     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
-     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
-     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
-     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
-     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
-     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
-
-- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
-     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
-     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-     License.  You must require such a user to return or
-     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
-     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
-     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
-     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
-     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
-     of receipt of the work.
-
-- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
-     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
-forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
-both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
-Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
-Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
-
-1.F.
-
-1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
-effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
-public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
-collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
-"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
-corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
-property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
-computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
-your equipment.
-
-1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
-of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
-fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
-LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
-PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
-TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
-LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
-INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
-DAMAGE.
-
-1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
-defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
-receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
-written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
-received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
-your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
-the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
-refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
-providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
-receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
-is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
-opportunities to fix the problem.
-
-1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
-in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
-WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
-WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
-
-1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
-warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
-If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
-law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
-interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
-the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
-provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
-
-1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
-trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
-providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
-with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
-promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
-harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
-that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
-or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
-work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
-Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
-
-
-Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
-electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
-including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
-because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
-people in all walks of life.
-
-Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
-assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
-goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
-remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
-and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
-To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
-and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
-and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
-
-
-Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
-Foundation
-
-The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
-501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
-state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
-Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
-number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
-http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
-permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
-
-The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
-Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
-throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
-809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
-business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
-information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
-page at http://pglaf.org
-
-For additional contact information:
-     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
-     Chief Executive and Director
-     gbnewby@pglaf.org
-
-
-Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
-spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
-increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
-freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
-array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
-($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
-status with the IRS.
-
-The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
-charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
-States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
-considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
-with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
-where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
-SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
-particular state visit http://pglaf.org
-
-While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
-have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
-against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
-approach us with offers to donate.
-
-International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
-any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
-outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
-
-Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
-methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
-ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
-To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
-
-
-Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
-works.
-
-Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
-concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
-with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
-Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
-
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
-editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
-unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
-keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
-
-
-Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
-
-     http://www.gutenberg.org
-
-This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
-including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
-subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802.zip b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802.zip
deleted file mode 100644
index 95473d3..0000000
--- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802.zip
+++ /dev/null
diff --git a/old/rmona10.txt b/old/rmona10.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index edc04db..0000000
--- a/old/rmona10.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,16424 +0,0 @@
-**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson**
-
-Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
-the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!
-
-Please take a look at the important information in this header.
-We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
-electronic path open for the next readers.  Do not remove this.
-
-*It must legally be the first thing seen when opening the book.*
-In fact, our legal advisors said we can't even change margins.
-
-**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
-
-**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
-
-*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
-
-Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
-further information is included below.  We need your donations.
-
-
-Title: Ramona
-
-Author: Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-September, 2001  [Etext #2802]
-
-
-**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson**
-******This file should be named rmona10.txt or rmona10.zip******
-
-Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, rmona11.txt
-VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rmona10a.txt
-
-
-Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com
-
-Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
-all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
-copyright notice is included.  Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any
-of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.
-
-
-We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
-of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
-
-Please note:  neither this list nor its contents are final till
-midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
-The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
-Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
-preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
-and editing by those who wish to do so.  To be sure you have an
-up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
-in the first week of the next month.  Since our ftp program has
-a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
-look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
-new copy has at least one byte more or less.
-
-
-Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
-
-We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
-time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
-to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
-searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.  This
-projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If our value
-per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
-million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text
-files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+
-If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the
-total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year.
-
-The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
-Files by December 31, 2001.  [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
-This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
-which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users.
-
-At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
-of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
-manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly
-from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an
-assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few
-more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we
-don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person.
-
-We need your donations more than ever!
-
-
-All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are
-tax deductible to the extent allowable by law.  (CMU = Carnegie-
-Mellon University).
-
-For these and other matters, please mail to:
-
-Project Gutenberg
-P. O. Box  2782
-Champaign, IL 61825
-
-When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director:
-Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>
-hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org
-if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
-it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .
-
-We would prefer to send you this information by email.
-
-******
-
-To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser
-to view http://promo.net/pg.  This site lists Etexts by
-author and by title, and includes information about how
-to get involved with Project Gutenberg.  You could also
-download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here.  This
-is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com,
-for a more complete list of our various sites.
-
-To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any
-Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror
-sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed
-at http://promo.net/pg).
-
-Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better.
-
-Example FTP session:
-
-ftp metalab.unc.edu
-login: anonymous
-password: your@login
-cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
-cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext01, etc.
-dir [to see files]
-get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
-GET GUTINDEX.??  [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
-GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]
-
-***
-
-**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
-
-(Three Pages)
-
-
-***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
-Why is this "Small Print!" statement here?  You know: lawyers.
-They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
-your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
-someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
-fault.  So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
-disclaims most of our liability to you.  It also tells you how
-you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
-
-*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
-By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
-etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
-this "Small Print!" statement.  If you do not, you can receive
-a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
-sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
-you got it from.  If you received this etext on a physical
-medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
-
-ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
-This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
-tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
-Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
-Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project").  Among other
-things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
-on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
-distribute it in the United States without permission and
-without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules, set forth
-below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
-under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
-
-To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
-efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
-works.  Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
-medium they may be on may contain "Defects".  Among other
-things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
-corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
-intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
-disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
-codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
-
-LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
-But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
-[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
-etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
-legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
-UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
-INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
-OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
-POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
-
-If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
-receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
-you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
-time to the person you received it from.  If you received it
-on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
-such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
-copy.  If you received it electronically, such person may
-choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
-receive it electronically.
-
-THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS".  NO OTHER
-WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
-TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
-LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
-PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
-
-Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
-the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
-above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
-may have other legal rights.
-
-INDEMNITY
-You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
-officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
-and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
-indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
-[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
-or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.
-
-DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
-You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
-disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
-"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
-or:
-
-[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
-     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
-     etext or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
-     if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
-     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
-     including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
-     cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
-     *EITHER*:
-
-     [*]  The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
-          does *not* contain characters other than those
-          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
-          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
-          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
-          author, and additional characters may be used to
-          indicate hypertext links; OR
-
-     [*]  The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
-          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
-          form by the program that displays the etext (as is
-          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
-          OR
-
-     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
-          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
-          etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
-          or other equivalent proprietary form).
-
-[2]  Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
-     "Small Print!" statement.
-
-[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
-     net profits you derive calculated using the method you
-     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
-     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
-     payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon
-     University" within the 60 days following each
-     date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
-     your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.
-
-WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
-The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
-scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
-free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
-you can think of.  Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
-Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".
-
-We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure
-in 2000, so you might want to email me, hart@pobox.com beforehand.
-
-
-
-
-*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
-
-
-
-
-
-Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com
-
-
-
-
-
-Ramona
-
-by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but
-sheep-shearing was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had
-seemed to combine to put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno
-had been ill. He was the Senora's eldest son, and since his father's
-death had been at the head of his mother's house. Without him,
-nothing could be done on the ranch, the Senora thought. It had
-been always, "Ask Senor Felipe," "Go to Senor Felipe," "Senor
-Felipe will attend to it," ever since Felipe had had the dawning of a
-beard on his handsome face.
-
-In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all
-questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the
-place, from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody
-except the Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman
-for her day and generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,-- as for
-that matter, exceedingly clever for any day and generation; but
-exceptionally clever for the day and generation to which she
-belonged. Her life, the mere surface of it, if it had been written,
-would have made a romance, to grow hot and cold over: sixty
-years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New Spain, Bay
-of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,-- the waves of them all
-had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had
-had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had
-brought her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said
-anything about herself, which she never did,-- one of her many
-wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was
-known to veil such an imperious and passionate nature, brimful of
-storm, always passing through stress; never thwarted, except at
-peril of those who did it; adored and hated by turns, and each at
-the hottest. A tremendous force, wherever she appeared, was
-Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect it, to see her gliding
-about, in her scanty black gown, with her rosary hanging at her
-side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of mingled
-melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a
-sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like her race,
-but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice
-heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak
-either loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in
-her speech, which came near being a stammer, or suggested the
-measured care with which people speak who have been cured of
-stammering. It made her often appear as if she did not known her
-own mind; at which people sometimes took heart; when, if they
-had only known the truth, they would have known that the speech
-hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that
-she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired,
-or in a way to best attain her ends.
-
-About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and
-the head shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to
-distinguish him from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle,
-some discussions which would have been hot and angry ones in
-any other hands than the Senora's.
-
-Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor
-Felipe were ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not
-yet got back with the flock that had been driven up the coast for
-pasture. "There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,"
-he said one morning,-- "at least a thousand;" and by the time they
-were done, Luigo would surely be back with the rest; and as for
-Senor Felipe's being in bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the
-packing-bag, and handled the wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy?
-Why could he not do it again? The Senora did not realize how time
-was going; there would be no shearers to be hired presently, since
-the Senora was determined to have none but Indians. Of course, if
-she would employ Mexicans, as all the other ranches in the valley
-did, it would be different; but she was resolved upon having
-Indians,-- "God knows why," he interpolated surlily, under his
-breath.
-
-"I do not quite understand you, Juan," interrupted Senora Moreno
-at the precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful
-ejaculation had escaped Juan's lips; "speak a little louder. I fear I
-am growing deaf in my old age."
-
-What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested
-on Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as
-unequal as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not
-have told why he instantly and involuntarily said, "Beg your
-pardon, Senora."
-
-"Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan," the Senora replied with
-exquisite gentleness; "it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I
-have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did.
-But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he
-had positively engaged the same band of shearers we had last
-autumn, Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until
-we are ready for them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for
-them. He thinks them the best shearers in the country. He will be
-well enough in a week or two, he thinks, and the poor sheep must
-bear their loads a few days longer. Are they looking well, do you
-think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? General Moreno used to
-say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a pound, while it
-was on the sheep's backs."
-
-"Yes, Senora," answered the mollified Juan; "the poor beasts look
-wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all
-winter. We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if
-any. Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that --
-Luigo will bring his flock back."
-
-The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with
-which Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a
-contemptuous epithet before Luigo's name.
-
-This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan
-Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all
-down as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe.
-
-Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: "Senor Felipe
-can see no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I
-can tell him, he will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a
-flock of sheep worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to
-anybody but Luigo. While I can have him under my eye, here in
-the valley, it is all very well; but he is no more fit to take
-responsibility of a flock, than one of the very lambs themselves.
-He'll drive them off their feet one day, and starve them the next;
-and I've known him to forget to give them water. When he's in his
-dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do."
-
-During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the
-Senora's countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not
-seen it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down
-into the upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping
-and gambolling and barking at his feet.
-
-"Down, Capitan, down!" he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing
-him; "thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but
-thy voice."
-
-"I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito," said the Senora in a
-sweet but icy tone. "It is not well for one servant to backbite
-another. It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope
-when Father Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to
-confess this sin of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to
-injure a fellow-being. If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy
-Luigo will be cast out homeless on the world some day; and what
-sort of a deed would that be, Juan Canito, for one Christian to do
-to another? I fear the Father will give you penance, when he hears
-what you have said."
-
-"Senora, it is not to harm the lad," Juan began, every fibre of his
-faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her
-reproach.
-
-But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no
-more from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at
-her usual slow pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary
-lifted in her left hand, and the fingers of the right hand
-mechanically slipping the beads.
-
-"Prayers, always prayers!" thought Juan to himself, as his eyes
-followed her. "If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the
-straight road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to
-do, if he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to
-stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with
-everything? Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the
-General died,-- an ill day! an ill day! And they may scold me as
-much as they please, and set me to confessing my sins to the
-Father; it's very well for them, they've got me to look after matters.
-Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's a man, maybe; but a
-boy like him! Bah!" And the old man stamped his foot with a not
-wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in which he
-felt himself put.
-
-"Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!" he muttered aloud. "Ay,
-that will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest," -- at which slip of
-the tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,-- "and I'll ask
-him to give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage
-between this young boy at the head of everything, and a doting
-mother who thinks he has the wisdom of a dozen grown men. The
-Father knew the place in the olden time. He knows it's no child's
-play to look after the estate even now, much smaller as it is! An ill
-day when the old General died, an ill day indeed, the saints rest his
-soul!" Saying this, Juan shrugged his shoulders, and whistling to
-Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of the south side of the
-kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for twenty odd years
-his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning.
-Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, a
-thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the
-quick sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of
-purpose could only come from something in connection with
-sheep; and, true to his instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised
-himself for a full run, and looked up in his master's face waiting
-for explanation and signal. But Juan did not observe him.
-
-"Ha!" he said, "Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he?
-Let's see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to
-come off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be
-mass in the chapel, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be
-here at least two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by
-that and by the confessions. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's
-a pious lad. I recollect now, it was the same way two years ago.
-Well, well, it is a good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a
-bit of religion now and then; and it's like old times to see the
-chapel full of them kneeling, and more than can get in at the door;
-I doubt not it warms the Senora's heart to see them all there, as if
-they belonged to the house, as they used to: and now I know when
-it's to be, I have only to make my arrangements accordingly. It is
-always in the first week of the month the Father gets here. Yes; she
-said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough in a week or two, he
-thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or thereabouts. I'll
-begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for not being
-back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow boughs for
-the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and
-another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming
-head he's got on his shoulders."
-
-Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor
-Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put
-him in good humor for the day,-- good humor with everybody, and
-himself most of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning
-back against the whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out
-nearly across the whole width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged
-in the extreme left corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets,
-he was the picture of placid content. The troop of youngsters
-which still swarmed around the kitchen quarters of Senora
-Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable as in the
-grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth across
-Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by
-help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan,
-though loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers
-from the kitchen.
-
-"What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?" saucily
-asked Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping
-her head out of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so
-gray and wrinkled that the maids all felt at ease with him. He
-seemed to them as old as Methuselah; but he was not really so old
-as they thought, nor they so safe in their tricks. The old man had
-hot blood in his veins yet, as the under-shepherds could testify.
-
-"The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita," answered Juan
-quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a
-mock bow towards the window.
-
-"He! he! Senorita, indeed!" chuckled Margarita's mother, old
-Marda the cook. "Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the
-doors of his betters;" and she flung a copper saucepan full of not
-over-clean water so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched
-him, and yet he had the appearance of having been ducked. At
-which bit of sleight-of-hand the whole court-yard, young and old,
-babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, all set up a shout and a cackle,
-and dispersed to the four corners of the yard as if scattered by a
-volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, the rest of the maids came
-running,-- Anita and Maria, the twins, women forty years old, born
-on the place the year after General Moreno brought home his
-handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the
-Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother;
-old Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the
-Senora was said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor
-thing, could tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more,
-good for nothing except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well
-as ever, and was never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her,
-beans are the one crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican
-estate; and for sake of old Juanita they stored every year in the
-Moreno house, rooms full of beans in the pod (tons of them, one
-would think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was like a little
-army even now, the Senora's household; nobody ever knew exactly
-how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men in the
-fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or
-widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or
-sister's husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or
-down the valley. When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew
-to whom he paid wages; but who were fed and lodged under his
-roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter into the head
-of a Mexican gentleman to make either count or account of that. It
-would be a disgraceful niggardly thought.
-
-To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people
-about the place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly
-enough to do the work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the
-latter had dwindled. In the General's day, it had been a free-handed
-boast of his that never less than fifty persons, men, women and
-children, were fed within his gates each day; how many more, he
-did not care, nor know. But that time had indeed gone, gone
-forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush and muster
-at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly the
-water at Juan's head, would have thought, "Good heavens, do all
-those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!" the
-Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate,
-was, "Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old
-Marda has to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the
-house to help her." And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held
-her rosary nearer to her heart, as she went into the house and
-entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw there was one to
-thrill any mother's heart; and as it met her eye, she paused on the
-threshold for a second,-- only a second, however; and nothing
-could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have been told
-that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was saying
-to him, "Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and
-are better," there was welling up in her heart a passionate
-ejaculation, "O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him
-the face of his father! He is fit for a kingdom!"
-
-The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he
-had been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without
-ever finding it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there
-never was a king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set
-off a crown or a throne, or any of the things of which the outside of
-royalty is made up, better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was
-true, as the Senora said, whether the saints had anything to do with
-it or not, that he had the face of his father. So strong a likeness is
-seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the occasion of a grand
-celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought velvet mantle,
-gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at the knee with red
-ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father
-had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her first
-look at him,-- fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and
-saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending
-over her in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she
-fainted again.
-
-"Mother, mother mia," cried Felipe, "I will not wear them if it
-makes you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to
-their cursed parade;" and he sprang to his feet, and began with
-trembling fingers to unbuckle the sword-belt.
-
-"No, no, Felipe," faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. "It is
-my wish that you wear them;" and staggering to her feet, with a
-burst of tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers
-had so many times -- never unkissed -- buckled, in the days when
-her husband had bade her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain
-fates of war. "Wear them!" she cried, with gathering fire in her
-tones, and her eyes dry of tears,-- "wear them, and let the
-American hounds see what a Mexican officer and gentleman
-looked like before they had set their base, usurping feet on our
-necks!" And she followed him to the gate, and stood erect, bravely
-waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was out of
-sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly
-to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the
-Madonna at the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the
-day praying that she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might
-be discomfited. From which part of these supplications she derived
-most comfort is easy to imagine.
-
-Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for
-Father Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being
-delayed, and not in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the
-non-appearance of Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have
-chuckled to himself still more at his perspicacity, had he overheard
-the conversation going on between the Senora and her son, at the
-very time when he, half asleep on the veranda, was, as he would
-have called it, putting two and two together and convincing
-himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, and not to be kept
-in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation.
-
-"Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,"
-said the Senora. "I suppose you are still of the same mind about it,
-Felipe,-- that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As
-the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would
-seem a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is
-very restive. He is getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under
-your control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee.
-Now I, for my part, am like to forget that you were ever anything
-but a man for me to lean on."
-
-Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming
-smile of filial affection and gratified manly vanity. "Indeed, my
-mother, if I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing
-more of the saints;" and he took his mother's thin and wasted little
-hands, both at once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them
-to his lips as a lover might have done. "You will spoil me,
-mother," he said, "you make me so proud."
-
-"No, Felipe, it is I who am proud," promptly replied the mother;
-"and I do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having
-given me a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide
-and protect me through the few remaining years I have to live. I
-shall die content, seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as
-a Mexican gentleman should; that is, so far as now remains
-possible in this unfortunate country. But about the sheep-shearing,
-Felipe. Do you wish to have it begun before the Father is here? Of
-course, Alessandro is all ready with his band. It is but two days'
-journey for a messenger to bring him. Father Salvierderra cannot
-be here before the 10th of the month. He leaves Santa Barbara on
-the 1st, and he will walk all the way,-- a good six days' journey, for
-he is old now and feeble; then he must stop in Ventura for a
-Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the Lopez's,-- there,
-there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very earliest that he can
-be here,-- near two weeks from now. So far as your getting up is
-concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be nearly well
-by that time."
-
-"Yes, indeed," laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed
-and giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts
-and the fringed canopy roof shake and creak; "I am well now, if it
-were not for this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I
-believe it would do me good to get out of doors."
-
-In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself.
-It was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked
-in it; and two weeks looked long to wait.
-
-"It is always thus after a fever," said his mother. "The weakness
-lasts many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough
-even in two weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this
-morning, he stood at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and
-there was no need of waiting for you for that!"
-
-"He said that, did he!" exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. "The old man
-is getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but
-myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing
-when I please, and not before."
-
-"I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till
-the Father comes, would it?" asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if
-the thing were evenly balanced in her mind. "The Father has not
-that hold on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought
-that even in Juan himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit
-of unbelief is spreading in the country since the Americans are
-running up and down everywhere seeking money, like dogs with
-their noses to the ground! It might vex Juan if he knew that you
-were waiting only for the Father. What do you think?"
-
-"I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits
-for my pleasure," answered Felipe, still wrathful, "and that is the
-end of it." And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which
-Senora Moreno had had in her own mind from the beginning; but
-not even Juan Canito himself suspected its being solely her
-purpose, and not her son's. As for Felipe, if any person had
-suggested to him that it was his mother, and not he, who had
-decided that the sheep-shearing would be better deferred until the
-arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, and that nothing
-should be said on the ranch about this being the real reason of the
-postponing, Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and have
-thought that person either crazy or a fool.
-
-To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art.
-Never to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield
-other men, as instruments, with the same direct and implicit
-response to will that one gets from a hand or a foot,-- this is to
-triumph, indeed: to be as nearly controller and conqueror of Fates
-as fate permits. There have been men prominent in the world's
-affairs at one time and another, who have sought and studied such
-a power and have acquired it to a great degree. By it they have
-manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sovereigns; and have
-grasped, held, and played with the destinies of empires. But it is to
-be questioned whether even in these notable instances there has
-ever been such marvellous completeness of success as is
-sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an
-instinct and not an attainment; a passion rather than a purpose.
-Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just
-that difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of
-talent and the stroke of genius.
-
-Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.
-
-II
-
-THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be
-found in California of the representative house of the half barbaric,
-half elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by
-Mexican men and women of degree in the early part of this
-century, under the rule of the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when
-the laws of the Indies were still the law of the land, and its old
-name, "New Spain," was an ever-present link and stimulus to the
-warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its people.
-
-It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it,
-more also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be
-seen again on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there
-still; industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out
-its century,-- in fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is
-left standing one such house as the Senora Moreno's.
-
-When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land
-within a radius of forty miles,-- forty miles westward, down the
-valley to the sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando
-Mountains; and good forty miles more or less along the coast. The
-boundaries were not very strictly defined; there was no occasion,
-in those happy days, to reckon land by inches. It might be asked,
-perhaps, just how General Moreno owned all this land, and the
-question might not be easy to answer. It was not and could not be
-answered to the satisfaction of the United States Land
-Commission, which, after the surrender of California, undertook to
-sift and adjust Mexican land titles; and that was the way it had
-come about that the Senora Moreno now called herself a poor
-woman. Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away from her;
-it looked for a time as if nothing would be left. Every one of the
-claims based on deeds of gift from Governor Pio Fico, her
-husband's most intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by
-the board in one batch, and took away from the Senora in a day the
-greater part of her best pasture-lands. They were lands which had
-belonged to the Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at
-the mouth of the valley down which the little stream which ran
-past her house went to the sea; and it had been a great pride and
-delight to the Senora, when she was young, to ride that forty miles
-by her husband's side, all the way on their own lands, straight from
-their house to their own strip of shore. No wonder she believed the
-Americans thieves, and spoke of them always as hounds. The
-people of the United States have never in the least realized that the
-taking possession of California was not only a conquering of
-Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the real
-bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which
-gave up the country, as to the country itself which was given up.
-Provinces passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands
-of great powers, have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat,
-with none of the dignities or compensations of the transaction.
-
-Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge
-herself beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting
-of such a transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the
-country; probably none did, except those who were absolutely
-forced to it.
-
-Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the
-valley was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which
-had once belonged to the missions of San Fernando and
-Bonaventura; and after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions,
-appeals, and adjudications were ended, she still was left in
-undisputed possession of what would have been thought by any
-new-comer into the country to be a handsome estate, but which
-seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora a pitiful fragment of
-one. Moreover, she declared that she should never feel secure of a
-foot of even this. Any day, she said, the United States Government
-might send out a new Land Commission to examine the decrees of
-the first, and revoke such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a
-thief. Nobody need feel himself safe under American rule. There
-was no knowing what might happen any day; and year by year the
-lines of sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism deepened on
-the Senora's fast aging face.
-
-It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners,
-laying out a road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house
-instead of past the front. "It is well," she said. "Let their travel be
-where it belongs, behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the
-front doors of our houses, except friends who have come to visit
-us." Her enjoyment of this never flagged. Whenever she saw,
-passing the place, wagons or carriages belonging to the hated
-Americans, it gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure to think that the
-house turned its back on them. She would like always to be able to
-do the same herself; but whatever she, by policy or in business,
-might be forced to do, the old house, at any rate, would always
-keep the attitude of contempt,-- its face turned away.
-
-One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road
-was opened,-- a pleasure in which religious devotion and race
-antagonism were so closely blended that it would have puzzled the
-subtlest of priests to decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue.
-She caused to be set up, upon every one of the soft rounded hills
-which made the beautiful rolling sides of that part of the valley, a
-large wooden cross; not a hill in sight of her house left without the
-sacred emblem of her faith. "That the heretics may know, when
-they go by, that they are on the estate of a good Catholic," she said,
-"and that the faithful may be reminded to pray. There have been
-miracles of conversion wrought on the most hardened by a sudden
-sight of the Blessed Cross."
-
-There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent,
-solemn, outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a
-guideless traveller who had been told that his way would be by the
-first turn to the left or the right, after passing the last one of the
-Senora Moreno's crosses, which he couldn't miss seeing. And who
-shall say that it did not often happen that the crosses bore a sudden
-message to some idle heart journeying by, and thus justified the
-pious half of the Senora's impulse? Certain it is, that many a good
-Catholic halted and crossed himself when he first beheld them, in
-the lonely places, standing out in sudden relief against the blue
-sky; and if he said a swift short prayer at the sight, was he not so
-much the better? 
-
-The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three
-sides of the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire
-front, which looked to the south. These verandas, especially those
-on the inner court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The
-greater part of the family life went on in them. Nobody stayed
-inside the walls, except when it was necessary. All the kitchen
-work, except the actual cooking, was done here, in front of the
-kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, were washed, sat in the
-dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said their prayers,
-took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita shelled her
-beans there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, till towards
-night they were sometimes piled up high around her, like
-corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and shepherds smoked
-there, lounged there, trained their dogs there; there the young made
-love, and the old dozed; the benches, which ran the entire length of
-the walls, were worn into hollows, and shone like satin; the tiled
-floors also were broken and sunk in places, making little wells,
-which filled up in times of hard rains, and were then an invaluable
-addition to the children's resources for amusement, and also to the
-comfort of the dogs, cats, and fowls, who picked about among
-them, taking sips from each.
-
-The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It
-must have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large
-rooms opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added
-on, and made four steps higher than the others; which gave to that
-end of the veranda the look of a balcony, or loggia. Here the
-Senora kept her flowers; great red water-jars, hand-made by the
-Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, stood in close rows against
-the walls, and in them were always growing fine geraniums,
-carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's passion for
-musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong that she
-sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father
-Salvierderra in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms,
-and giving them to him, said, "I do not know why it is, but it seems
-to me if I were dead I could be brought to life by the smell of
-musk."
-
-"It is in your blood, Senora," the old monk replied. "When I was
-last in your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to
-her room, and under her window was a stone balcony full of
-growing musk, which so filled the room with its odor that I was
-like to faint. But she said it cured her of diseases, and without it
-she fell ill. You were a baby then."
-
-"Yes," cried the Senora, "but I recollect that balcony. I recollect
-being lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of
-blooming yellow flowers; but I did not know what they were. How
-strange!"
-
-"No. Not strange, daughter," replied Father Salvierderra. "It would
-have been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing
-it in with the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to
-remember this far more than they do."
-
-Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars,
-there were many sorts of climbing vines,-- some coming from the
-ground, and twining around the pillars of the veranda; some
-growing in great bowls, swung by cords from the roof of the
-veranda, or set on shelves against the walls. These bowls were of
-gray stone, hollowed and polished, shining smooth inside and out.
-They also had been made by the Indians, nobody knew how many
-ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient creatures, with only
-stones for tools.
-
-Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the
-Senora's canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different
-generations, raised by the Senora. She was never without a young
-bird-family on hand; and all the way from Bonaventura to
-Monterey, it was thought a piece of good luck to come into
-possession of a canary or finch of Senora Moreno's 'raising.
-
-Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it
-looked, all was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the
-orange grove always green, never without snowy bloom or golden
-fruit; the garden never without flowers, summer or winter; and the
-almond orchard, in early spring, a fluttering canopy of pink and
-white petals, which, seen from the hills on the opposite side of the
-river, looked as if rosy sunrise clouds had fallen, and become
-tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand stretched away other
-orchards,-- peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; and beyond
-these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or bloom or
-fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south
-veranda.
-
-A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted
-with grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work,
-led straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of
-the garden, to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in
-the shade of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad
-flat stone washboards on which was done all the family washing.
-No long dawdling, and no running away from work on the part of
-the maids, thus close to the eye of the Senora at the upper end of
-the garden; and if they had known how picturesque they looked
-there, kneeling on the grass, lifting the dripping linen out of the
-water, rubbing it back and forth on the stones, sousing it, wringing
-it, splashing the clear water in each other's faces, they would have
-been content to stay at the washing day in and day out, for there
-was always somebody to look on from above. Hardly a day passed
-that the Senora had not visitors. She was still a person of note; her
-house the natural resting-place for all who journeyed through the
-valley; and whoever came, spent all of his time, when not eating,
-sleeping, or walking over the place, sitting with the Senora on the
-sunny veranda. Few days in winter were cold enough, and in
-summer the day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her
-friends indoors. There stood on the veranda three carved oaken
-chairs, and a carved bench, also of oak, which had been brought to
-the Senora for safe keeping by the faithful old sacristan of San
-Luis Rey, at the time of the occupation of that Mission by the
-United States troops, soon after the conquest of California. Aghast
-at the sacrilegious acts of the soldiers, who were quartered in the
-very church itself, and amused themselves by making targets of the
-eyes and noses of the saints' statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by
-day and night after night, bore out of the church all that he dared to
-remove, burying some articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others
-in his own poor little hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred
-treasures. Then, still more stealthily, he carried them, a few at a
-time, concealed in the bottom of a cart, under a load of hay or of
-brush, to the house of the Senora, who felt herself deeply honored
-by his confidence, and received everything as a sacred trust, to be
-given back into the hands of the Church again, whenever the
-Missions should be restored, of which at that time all Catholics
-had good hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the
-Senora's house was without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the
-Madonna; and some had two; and in the little chapel in the garden
-the altar was surrounded by a really imposing row of holy and
-apostolic figures, which had looked down on the splendid
-ceremonies of the San Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no
-more benignly than they now did on the humbler worship of the
-Senora's family in its diminished estate. That one had lost an eye,
-another an arm, that the once brilliant colors of the drapery were
-now faded and shabby, only enhanced the tender reverence with
-which the Senora knelt before them, her eyes filling with indignant
-tears at thought of the heretic hands which had wrought such
-defilement. Even the crumbling wreaths which had been placed on
-some of the statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial at
-which they had figured in the Mission, had been brought away
-with them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had replaced
-each one, holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue itself.
-
-This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been
-built by the General in the second year of their married life. In it
-her four children had been christened, and from it all but one, her
-handsome Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In
-the General's time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of
-Indians living within its borders, there was many a Sunday when
-the scene to be witnessed there was like the scenes at the
-Missions,-- the chapel full of kneeling men and women; those who
-could not find room inside kneeling on the garden walks outside;
-Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous vestments, coming, at close of the
-services, slowly down the aisle, the close-packed rows of
-worshippers parting to right and left to let him through, all looking
-up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him offerings of fruit or
-flowers, and holding up their babies that he might lay his hands on
-their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever officiated in
-the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He was a
-Franciscan, one of the few now left in the country; so revered and
-beloved by all who had come under his influence, that they would
-wait long months without the offices of the Church, rather than
-confess their sins or confide their perplexities to any one else.
-From this deep-seated attachment on the part of the Indians and
-the older Mexican families in the country to the Franciscan Order,
-there had grown up, not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in the
-minds of the later-come secular priests, and the position of the few
-monks left was not wholly a pleasant one. It had even been
-rumored that they were to be forbidden to continue longer their
-practice of going up and down the country, ministering
-everywhere; were to be compelled to restrict their labors to their
-own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa Inez. When something to
-this effect was one day said in the Senora Moreno's presence, two
-scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought
-herself, she exclaimed, "That day, I burn down my chapel!"
-
-Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his
-exclamation of unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to
-herself.
-
-"I spoke rashly, my son," she said. "The Church is to be obeyed
-always; but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but
-the Superior of their own order; and there is no one in this land
-who has the authority to forbid their journeying and ministering to
-whoever desires their offices. As for these Catalan priests who are
-coming in here, I cannot abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood
-in his veins!"
-
-There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be
-thus warmly attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest
-recollections the gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her
-eyes, and had represented the things which she was taught to hold
-most sacred and dear. Father Salvierderra himself had come from
-Mexico to Monterey in the same ship which had brought her father
-to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara Presidio; and her
-best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was at that time the
-Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment and
-romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the
-gayeties, excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and
-the ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was
-famed as the most beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army,
-men of the navy, and men of the Church, alike adored her. Her
-name was a toast from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she
-was wooed and won by Felipe Moreno, one of the most
-distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her wedding ceremonies
-were the most splendid ever seen in the country. The right tower of
-the Mission church at Santa Barbara had been just completed, and
-it was arranged that the consecration of this tower should take
-place at the time of her wedding, and that her wedding feast should
-be spread in the long outside corridor of the Mission building. The
-whole country, far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days;
-open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating, drinking, and
-making merry. At that time there were long streets of Indian
-houses stretching eastward from the Mission; before each of these
-houses was built a booth of green boughs. The Indians, as well as
-the Fathers from all the other Missions, were invited to come. The
-Indians came in bands, singing songs and bringing gifts. As they
-appeared, the Santa Barbara Indians went out to meet them, also
-singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on the ground, in token
-of welcome. The young Senora and her bridegroom, splendidly
-clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, whenever they appeared, by
-showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third day, still in
-their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles in their hands,
-they walked with the monks in a procession, round and round the
-new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy
-water on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders
-to give a blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as
-well as to the newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in
-state, accompanied by several of the General's aids and officers,
-and by two Franciscan Fathers, up to Monterey, stopping on their
-way at all the Missions, and being warmly welcomed and
-entertained at each.
-
-General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In
-many of the frequent clashings between the military and the
-ecclesiastical powers he, being as devout and enthusiastic a
-Catholic as he was zealous and enthusiastic a soldier, had had the
-good fortune to be of material assistance to each party. The Indians
-also knew his name well, having heard it many times mentioned
-with public thanksgivings in the Mission churches, after some
-signal service he had rendered to the Fathers either in Mexico or
-Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the daughter of a
-distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara Superior,
-he had linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and
-interests of the country.
-
-When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population
-turned out to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they
-approached the Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and
-closer and still closer, took the General's horse by the head, and
-finally almost by actual force compelled him to allow himself to
-be lifted into a blanket, held high up by twenty strong men; and
-thus he was borne up the steps, across the corridor, and into the
-Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously undignified in itself, but
-the General submitted to it good-naturedly.
-
-"Oh, let them do it, if they like," he cried, laughingly, to Padre
-Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them
-back. "Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures."
-
-On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having
-exhausted all his resources for entertaining his distinguished
-guests, caused to be driven past the corridors, for their inspection,
-all the poultry belonging to the Mission. The procession took an
-hour to pass. For music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing,
-gobbling, crowing, quacking of the fowls, combined with the
-screaming, scolding, and whip-cracking of the excited Indian
-marshals of the lines. First came the turkeys, then the roosters,
-then the white hens, then the black, and then the yellow, next the
-ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle long files of geese, some
-strutting, some half flying and hissing in resentment and terror at
-the unwonted coercions to which they were subjected. The Indians
-had been hard at work all night capturing, sorting, assorting, and
-guarding the rank and file of their novel pageant. It would be safe
-to say that a droller sight never was seen, and never will be, on the
-Pacific coast or any other. Before it was done with, the General
-and his bride had nearly died with laughter; and the General could
-never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily again.
-
-At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio,
-at the Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships
-lying in harbor, balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the
-country knew of festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and
-winning young bride. The belles of the coast, from San Diego up,
-had all gathered at Monterey for these gayeties, but not one of
-them could be for a moment compared to her. This was the
-beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. She was then
-just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then,
-underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a
-look thoughtful, tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look
-was the reflection of those qualities in her, then hardly aroused,
-which made her, as years developed her character and stormy fates
-thickened around her life, the unflinching comrade of her soldier
-husband, the passionate adherent of the Church. Through wars,
-insurrections, revolutions, downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil,
-ecclesiastical, her standpoint, her poise, remained the same. She
-simply grew more and more proudly, passionately, a Spaniard and
-a Moreno; more and more stanchly and fierily a Catholic, and a
-lover of the Franciscans.
-
-During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the
-Missions, under the Secularization Act, she was for a few years
-almost beside herself. More than once she journeyed alone, when
-the journey was by no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir
-up the Prefect of the Missions to more energetic action, to implore
-the governmental authorities to interfere, and protect the Church's
-property. It was largely in consequence of her eloquent entreaties
-that Governor Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to
-the Church all the Missions south of San Luis Obispo. But this
-order cost Micheltorena his political head, and General Moreno
-was severely wounded in one of the skirmishes of the insurrection
-which drove Micheltorena out of the country.
-
-In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband
-back to health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs
-of her unhappy country and still more unhappy Church. As year by
-year she saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on, their vast
-properties melting away, like dew before the sun, in the hands of
-dishonest administrators and politicians, the Church powerless to
-contend with the unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved
-Franciscan Fathers driven from the country or dying of starvation
-at their posts, she submitted herself to what, she was forced to
-admit, seemed to be the inscrutable will of God for the discipline
-and humiliation of the Church. In a sort of bewildered resignation
-she waited to see what further sufferings were to come, to fill up
-the measure of the punishment which, for some mysterious
-purpose, the faithful must endure. But when close upon all this
-discomfiture and humiliation of her Church followed the
-discomfiture and humiliation of her country in war, and the near
-and evident danger of an English-speaking people's possessing the
-land, all the smothered fire of the Senora's nature broke out afresh.
-With unfaltering hands she buckled on her husband's sword, and
-with dry eyes saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret,
-that she was not the mother of sons to fight also.
-
-"Would thou wert a man, Felipe," she exclaimed again and again
-in tones the child never forgot. "Would thou wert a man, that thou
-might go also to fight these foreigners!"
-
-Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful
-than the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when
-they came trading to post after post. She scorned them still. The
-idea of being forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her too
-monstrous to be believed. In the outset she had no doubt that the
-Mexicans would win in the contest.
-
-"What!" she cried, "shall we who won independence from Spain,
-be beaten by these traders? It is impossible!"
-
-When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last
-fight the Mexican forces made, she said icily, "He would have
-chosen to die rather than to have been forced to see his country in
-the hands of the enemy." And she was almost frightened at herself
-to see how this thought, as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in
-her heart. She had believed she could not live if her husband were
-to be taken away from her; but she found herself often glad that he
-was dead,-- glad that he was spared the sight and the knowledge of
-the things which happened; and even the yearning tenderness with
-which her imagination pictured him among the saints, was often
-turned into a fierce wondering whether indignation did not fill his
-soul, even in heaven, at the way things were going in the land for
-whose sake he had died.
-
-Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which
-made Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable
-woman they knew, who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the
-gay, tender, sentimental girl, who danced and laughed with the
-officers, and prayed and confessed with the Fathers, forty years
-before, there was small trace left now, in the low-voiced,
-white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who
-manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it
-about that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sins
-to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.
-
-III
-
-JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of
-the Senora's family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing.
-There was also Ramona. Ramona was, to the world at large, a far
-more important person than the Senora herself. The Senora was of
-the past; Ramona was of the present. For one eye that could see the
-significant, at times solemn, beauty of the Senora's pale and
-shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed with
-eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the
-shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the
-poultry, all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the
-Senora. The Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never
-could love her; and yet she had stood in the place of mother to the
-girl ever since her childhood, and never once during the whole
-sixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in act. She
-had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienable
-stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise.
-More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora's
-fault.
-
-The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the
-Senora's acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not
-know -- and no one ever asked a prying question of the Senora
-Moreno -- who Ramona's parents were, whether they were living
-or dead, or why Ramona, her name not being Moreno, lived always
-in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended and attended equally
-with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and women here
-and there in the country could have told the strange story of
-Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and
-much had happened since then. They seldom thought of the child.
-They knew she was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was
-enough. The affairs of the generation just going out were not the
-business of the young people coming in. They would have
-tragedies enough of their own presently; what was the use of
-passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to be
-forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer
-evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and
-all young men and maidens thrilled who heard it.
-
-It was an elder sister of the Senora's,-- a sister old enough to be
-wooed and won while the Senora was yet at play,-- who had been
-promised in marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail.
-She was a beautiful woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he
-first saw her standing in the Presidio gate, became so madly her
-lover, that he was like a man bereft of his senses. This was the
-only excuse ever to be made for Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could
-never be denied, by her bitterest accusers, that, at the first, and
-indeed for many months, she told Angus she did not love him, and
-could not marry him; and that it was only after his stormy and
-ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise to become his
-wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, and
-Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line of
-ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs,
-carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country,
-came in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event;
-and Angus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being
-wonderfully well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made
-welcome in all the best houses, wherever his ships went into
-harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.
-
-The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day
-and hour her lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks
-waving signals to each other as one sailed away to the south, the
-other to the north. It was remembered afterward by those who
-were in the ship with the Senorita, that she ceased to wave her
-signals, and had turned her face away, long before her lover's ship
-was out of sight. But the men of the "San Jose" said that Angus
-Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from
-his sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey ship had long
-before disappeared from view.
-
-This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his
-honor was pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by
-thinking that he would bring back for his bride, and for the home
-he meant to give her, treasures of all sorts, which none could select
-so well as he. Through the long weeks of the voyage he sat on
-deck, gazing dreamily at the waves, and letting his imagination
-feed on pictures of jewels, satins, velvets, laces, which would best
-deck his wife's form and face. When he could not longer bear the
-vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would pace the deck, swifter
-and swifter, till his steps were like those of one flying in fear; at
-such times the men heard him muttering and whispering to
-himself, "Ramona! Ramona!" Mad with love from the first to the
-last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if he
-had ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own,
-his reason would have fled forever at that moment, and he would
-have killed either her or himself, as men thus mad have been
-known to do. But that hour never came. When, eight months later,
-the "San Jose" sailed into the Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus
-Phail leaped breathless on shore, the second man he met, no friend
-of his, looking him maliciously in the face, said. "So, ho! You're
-just too late for the wedding! Your sweetheart, the handsome
-Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to a fine young officer
-of the Monterey Presidio!"
-
-Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on
-the ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a
-house, and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant
-from the hands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the
-door, and ran bareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the
-gate he was stopped by the guard, who knew him.
-
-"Is it true?" gasped Angus.
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied the man, who said afterward that his knees
-shook under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face.
-He feared he would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead,
-Angus burst into a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went
-staggering down the street, singing and laughing.
-
-The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place,
-where he was seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that
-day he sank lower and lower, till one of the commonest sights to
-be seen in Santa Barbara was Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy,
-coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.
-
-"See what the Senorita escaped!" said the thoughtless. "She was
-quite right not to have married such. a drunken wretch."
-
-In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he
-possessed,-- ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds
-squandered in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost
-bride. He did not seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution
-to avoid it, and soon returned with her husband to Monterey,
-
-Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up
-from Los Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San
-Gabriel Mission, and was living with the Indians. Some years later
-came the still more surprising news that he had married a squaw,--
-a squaw with several Indian children, -- had been legally married
-by the priest in the San Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the
-last that the faithless Ramona Gonzaga ever heard of her lover,
-until twenty-five years after her marriage, when one day he
-suddenly appeared in her presence. How he had gained admittance
-to the house was never known; but there he stood before her,
-bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing himself up to
-the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her sternly, with
-eyes blue like steel, he said: "Senora Ortegna, you once did me a
-great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has
-denied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and
-the Lord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once
-more at your hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and
-bring it up as a child of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?"
-
-The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The
-Lord had indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail
-knew. Her childlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of
-them. Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the
-child. He placed it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed.
-
-"I do not know if I will be permitted," she said falteringly; "my
-husband --"
-
-"Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him," replied
-Angus.
-
-The Senora's face brightened. "If that be so, I hope it can be as you
-wish," she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and
-looking down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, "But the child's
-mother?"
-
-Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this
-gentle and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first
-realized to the full how wickedly he had thrown away his life.
-With a quick wave of his hand, which spoke volumes, he said:
-"That is nothing. She has other children, of her own blood. This is
-mine, my only one, my daughter. I wish her to be yours; otherwise,
-she will be taken by the Church."
-
-With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight
-in her arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned
-towards the infant. At these words she bent her face down and
-kissed its cheek. "Oh, no! not to the Church! I will love it as my
-own," she said.
-
-Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred
-in their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so
-beautiful, so dear. "I should hardly have known you, Senora!" burst
-from him involuntarily.
-
-She smiled piteously, with no resentment. "That is not strange. I
-hardly know myself," she whispered. "Life has dealt very hardly
-with me. I should not have known you either -- Angus." She
-pronounced his name hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound
-of the familiar syllables, so long unheard, the man's heart broke
-down. He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed out: "O
-Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here, not wholly in love;
-partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you sure you wish
-to keep her? I will take her away if you are not."
-
-"Never, so long as I live, Angus," replied Senora Ortegna. "Already
-I feel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no
-offence in her presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been
-christened?"
-
-Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. "Before I had
-thought of bringing her to you," he stammered, "at first I had only
-the thought of giving her to the Church. I had had her christened
-by" -- the words refused to leave his lips -- "the name -- Can you
-not guess, Senora, what name she bears?"
-
-The Senora knew. "My own?" she said.
-
-Angus bowed his head. "The only woman's name that my lips ever
-spoke with love," he said, reassured, "was the name my daughter
-should bear."
-
-"It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between
-them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then
-by a simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out
-both his arms with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent
-down and kissed the hands which lovingly held his sleeping child.
-
-"God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,"
-he cried, and was gone.
-
-In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but
-only to say in a low tone, "There is no need to be alarmed if the
-child does not wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe
-sleeping-potion given her. It will not harm her."
-
-One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two
-lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted
-again, forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between
-them had been bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day.
-In the heart of the man it was the old passionate adoring love
-reawakening; a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with
-lineaments unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no
-buried love to come to such resurrection in her heart, for she had
-never loved Angus Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated,
-heartbroken, she woke at that moment to the realization of what
-manner of love it had been which she had thrown away in her
-youth; her whole being yearned for it now, and Angus was
-avenged.
-
-When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into his
-wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his
-eyes,-- his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay,
-smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant.
-
-"What in the devil's name," he began; then recollecting, he
-muttered: "Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora
-Ortegna, of your first child!" and with a mock bow, and cruel
-sneer, he staggered by, giving the cradle an angry thrust with his
-foot as he passed.
-
-The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had
-long since passed when unkind words from her husband could give
-her keen pain. But it was a warning not lost upon her new-born
-mother instinct, and from that day the little Ramona was carefully
-kept and tended in apartments where there was no danger of her
-being seen by the man to whom the sight of her baby face was only
-a signal for anger and indecency.
-
-Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully
-concealed from her family the unhappiness of her married life.
-Ortegna's character was indeed well known; his neglect of his
-wife, his shameful dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every
-port in the country. But from the wife herself no one had even
-heard so much as a syllable of complaint. She was a Gonzaga, and
-she knew how to suffer in silence, But now she saw a reason for
-taking her sister into her confidence. It was plain to her that she
-had not many years to live; and what then would become of the
-child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only too certain
-what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the lonely
-woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly
-endeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own
-death had not occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust.
-
-Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An
-Indian messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora
-Ortegna. He brought her also a box and a letter, given to him by
-Angus the day before his death. The box contained jewels of value,
-of fashions a quarter of a century old. They were the jewels which
-Angus had bought for his bride. These alone remained of all his
-fortune. Even in the lowest depths of his degradation, a certain
-sentiment had restrained him from parting with them. The letter
-contained only these words: "I send you all I have to leave my
-daughter. I meant to bring them myself this year. I wished to kiss
-your hands and hers once more. But I am dying. Farewell."
-
-After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested
-not till she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey,
-and had put the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also
-won from her a solemn promise that at her own death she would
-adopt the little Ramona. This promise came hard from Senora
-Moreno. Except for Father Salvierderra's influence, she had not
-given it. She did not wish any dealings with such alien and
-mongrel blood, "If the child were pure Indian, I would like it
-better," she said. "I like not these crosses. It is the worst, and not
-the best of each, that remains."
-
-But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she
-knew that her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little
-Ramona's future was assured. During the last years of the unhappy
-woman's life the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct
-had become so openly and defiantly infamous, that he even
-flaunted his illegitimate relations in his wife's presence; subjecting
-her to gross insults, spite of her helpless invalidism. This last
-outrage was too much for the Gonzaga blood to endure; the Senora
-never afterward left her apartment, or spoke to her husband. Once
-more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to see her die.
-Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and
-damasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from
-falling into the hands of the base creature that she knew only too
-well would stand in her place as soon as the funeral services had
-been said over her dead body.
-
-Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno
-conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house,
-to be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The
-Ortegnas lavished money always on the women whose hearts they
-broke; and never ceased to demand of them that they should sit
-superbly arrayed in their lonely wretchedness.
-
-One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of
-farewell to her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the
-little four-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early
-the next morning set sail for home.
-
-When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of
-all kinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger
-off, post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno,
-demanding their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's
-memoranda of instructions to her sister, giving all the said
-valuables to her in trust for Ramona; also a letter from Father
-Salvierderra, upon reading which he sank into a fit of despondency
-that lasted a day or two, and gave his infamous associates
-considerable alarm, lest they had lost their comrade. But he soon
-shook off the influence, whatever it was, and settled back into his
-old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. Father Salvierderra
-could alarm him, but not save him.
-
-And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora
-Moreno never told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never
-loved the child. It was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with
-memories which had in them nothing but bitterness, shame, and
-sorrow from first to last.
-
-How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was
-locked in her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud
-reserve in it as was ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's
-veins. While she was yet a little child, she had one day said to the
-Senora Moreno, "Senora, why did my mother give me to the
-Senora Ortegna?"
-
-Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: "Your mother had
-nothing whatever to do with it. It was your father."
-
-"Was my mother dead?" continued the child.
-
-Too late the Senora saw her mistake. "I do not know," she replied;
-which was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never
-saw your mother."
-
-"Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?" persisted Ramona.
-
-"No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning
-at the innocent child's unconscious touch.
-
-Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and
-her eyes tearful. At last she said, "I wish I knew if my mother was
-dead."
-
-"Why?" asked the Senora.
-
-"Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want
-me to stay with her."
-
-The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience.
-Taking the child in her arms, she said, "Who has been talking to
-you of these things, Ramona?"
-
-"Juan Can," she replied.
-
-"What did he say?" asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which
-boded no good to Juan Canito.
-
-"It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,"
-answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various
-reminiscences on the subject. "Twice I heard him. He said that my
-mother was no good, and that my father was bad too." And the
-tears rolled down the child's cheeks.
-
-The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness,
-now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she
-said, with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind,
-"Ramona must not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a
-bad man to say it. He never saw either your father or your mother,
-and so he could know nothing about them. I knew your father very
-well. He was not a bad man. He was my friend, and the friend of
-the Senora Ortegna; and that was the reason he gave you to the
-Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of her own. And I think
-your mother had a good many."
-
-"Oh!" said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of
-the situation,-- that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to
-the Senora Ortegna. "Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter
-very much?"
-
-"Yes, very much indeed," said the Senora, heartily and with fervor.
-"She had grieved many years because she had no child."
-
-Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart,
-grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide
-thrusts into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently
-electrified the Senora by saying in a half-whisper, "Why did not
-my father bring me to you first? Did he know you did not want any
-daughter?"
-
-The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she
-said: "Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he
-was mine. I was only a child, then."
-
-"Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,"
-continued Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and
-reflection without noticing the Senora's reply. "A son is more than
-a daughter; but most people have both," eying the Senora keenly,
-to see what response this would bring.
-
-But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the
-very mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her
-inability to love Ramona had swept through her mind. "Ramona,"
-she said firmly, "while you are a little girl, you cannot understand
-any of these things. When you are a woman, I will tell you all that
-I know myself about your father and your mother. It is very little.
-Your father died when you were only two years old. All that you
-have to do is to be a good child, and say your prayers, and when
-Father Salvierderra comes he will be pleased with you. And he will
-not be pleased if you ask troublesome questions. Don't ever speak
-to me again about this. When the proper time comes I will tell you
-myself."
-
-This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had
-never again asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden
-subject. She had been a good child and said her prayers, and Father
-Salvierderra had been always pleased with her, growing more and
-more deeply attached to her year by year. But the proper time had
-not yet come for the Senora to tell her anything more about her
-father and mother. There were few mornings on which the girl did
-not think, "Perhaps it may be to-day that she will tell me." But she
-would not ask. Every word of that conversation was as vivid in her
-mind as it had been the day it occurred; and it would hardly be an
-exaggeration to say that during every day of the whole nine years
-had deepened in her heart the conviction which had prompted the
-child's question, "Did he know that you did not want any
-daughter?"
-
-A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or
-at least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not.
-She never put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born
-deformed seem sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused
-by their deformity, with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as
-far above resignation, as resignation is above rebellious repining.
-
-No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or
-habitual conduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a
-care. Her face was sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was
-seen to pass a human being without a cheerful greeting, to highest
-and lowest the same. Her industry was tireless. She had had two
-years at school, in the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles,
-where the Senora had placed her at much personal sacrifice, during
-one of the hardest times the Moreno estate had ever seen. Here she
-had won the affection of all the Sisters, who spoke of her
-habitually as the "blessed child." They had taught her all the dainty
-arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions of painting
-and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out of
-books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and
-romance. For serious study or for deep thought she had no
-vocation. She was a simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful
-nature, like a clear brook rippling along in the sun,-- a nature as
-unlike as possible to the Senora's, with its mysterious depths and
-stormy, hidden currents.
-
-Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender,
-sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could
-only express by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil
-every duty possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not
-wholly lost on Senora Moreno, though its source she never
-suspected; and it won no new recognition from her for Ramona, no
-increase of love.
-
-But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of
-all this graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily
-more and more he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for
-Ramona. Nobody knew so well as he how far short she stopped of
-loving her. Felipe knew what it meant, how it felt, to be loved by
-the Senora Moreno. But Felipe had learned while he was a boy that
-one sure way to displease his mother was to appear to be aware
-that she did not treat Ramona as she treated him. And long before
-he had become a man he had acquired the habit of keeping to
-himself most of the things he thought and felt about his little
-playmate sister,-- a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly
-ripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years.
-
-IV
-
-IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be,
-before Father Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble
-during the year that she had not seen him, and it was a very short
-day's journey that he could make now without too great fatigue. It
-was not only his body that had failed. He had lost heart; and the
-miles which would have been nothing to him, had he walked in the
-companionship of hopeful and happy thoughts, stretched out
-wearily as he brooded over sad memories and still sadder
-anticipations,-- the downfall of the Missions, the loss of their vast
-estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. The
-final decision of the United States Government in regard to the
-Mission-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly
-believed that ultimate restoration of these great estates to the
-Church was inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept
-when at home at the Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara,
-kneeling on the stone pavement in the church, and praying
-ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had often had visions
-vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the Mission
-establishments should be reinstated in all their old splendor and
-prosperity, and their Indian converts again numbered by tens of
-thousands.
-
-Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would
-narrate these visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and
-declare that they must come true, and that it was a sin to despond.
-But as year after year he journeyed up and down the country,
-seeing, at Mission after Mission, the buildings crumbling into ruin,
-the lands all taken, sold, resold, and settled by greedy speculators;
-the Indian converts disappearing, driven back to their original
-wildernesses, the last traces of the noble work of his order being
-rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his faith died out.
-Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, also, were
-giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as
-Francis of Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take
-money in a purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray
-gown and cowl for any sort of secular garment, seemed to him
-wicked. To own comfortable clothes while there were others
-suffering for want of them -- and there were always such -- seemed
-to him a sin for which one might not undeservedly be smitten with
-sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the Brothers again and
-again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away to the first
-beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have been left
-bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had not
-been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could
-not give them all away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet
-often sublime sight, a man who has survived, not only his own
-time, but the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper
-loneliness: the bitterness of exile, the anguish of friendlessness at
-their utmost, are in it; and yet it is so much greater than they, that
-even they seem small part of it.
-
-It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew
-near the home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of
-those midsummer days of which Southern California has so many
-in spring. The almonds had bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the
-apricots also, and the peaches and pears; on all the orchards of
-these fruits had come a filmy tint of green, so light it was hardly
-more than a shadow on the gray. The willows were vivid light
-green, and the orange groves dark and glossy like laurel. The
-billowy hills on either side the valley were covered with verdure
-and bloom,-- myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the
-earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, and on
-the green of the grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each
-other and blend into a changeful color.
-
-The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in
-Southern California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring
-verdure; they are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a
-brilliant lizard in the sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's
-neck.
-
-Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful
-picture. Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis
-himself permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers.
-He classed them with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and
-stars,-- all members of the sacred choir praising God.
-
-It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each
-fresh drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air,
-the old man resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes
-cast down. The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost
-to the Church, -- alien hands reaping its fulness, establishing new
-customs, new laws. All the way down the coast from Santa
-Barbara he had seen, at every stopping-place, new tokens of the
-settling up of the country,-- farms opening, towns growing; the
-Americans pouring in, at all points, to reap the advantages of their
-new possessions. It was this which had made his journey
-heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in approaching the Senora
-Moreno's, as if he were coming to one of the last sure strongholds
-of the Catholic faith left in the country.
-
-When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the
-highway into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut
-through the hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was
-more than a year since he had trod this path, and as he found it
-growing fainter and fainter, and more and more overgrown with
-the wild mustard, he said to himself, "I think no one can have
-passed through here this year."
-
-As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The
-wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the
-New Testament, in the branches of which the birds of the air may
-rest. Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that dozens can
-find starting-point in an inch, it darts up, a slender straight shoot,
-five, ten, twenty feet, with hundreds of fine feathery branches
-locking and interlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till
-it is an inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts into yellow
-bloom still finer, more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so
-infinitesimally small, and of so dark a green, that at a short
-distance they do not show, and the cloud of blossom seems
-floating in the air; at times it looks like golden dust. With a clear
-blue sky behind it, as it is often seen, it looks like a golden
-snow-storm. The plant is a tyrant and a nuisance,-- the terror of the
-farmer; it takes riotous possession of a whole field in a season;
-once in, never out; for one plant this year, a million the next; but it
-is impossible to wish that the land were freed from it. Its gold is as
-distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.
-
-Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of
-these delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that
-he could make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling
-them, as one would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic
-sort of dilemma, and not unpleasing. Except that the Father was in
-haste to reach his journey's end, he would have enjoyed threading
-his way through the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint notes
-of singing. He paused,-- listened. It was the voice of a woman. It
-was slowly drawing nearer, apparently from the direction in which
-he was going. At intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again; as
-if by a sudden but brief interruption, like that made by question
-and answer. Then, peering ahead through the mustard blossoms, he
-saw them waving and bending, and heard sounds as if they were
-being broken. Evidently some one entering on the path from the
-opposite end had been caught in the fragrant thicket as he was. The
-notes grew clearer, though still low and sweet as the twilight notes
-of the thrush; the mustard branches waved more and more
-violently; light steps were now to be heard. Father Salvierderra
-stood still as one in a dream, his eyes straining forward into the
-golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, distinct and
-clear to his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint
-Francis's inimitable lyric, "The Canticle of the Sun:"
-
-"Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for
-our brother the Sun,-- who illuminates the day, and by his beauty
-and splendor shadows forth unto us thine."
-
-"Ramona!" exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with
-pleasure. "The blessed child!" And as he spoke, her face came into
-sight, set in a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them
-lightly to right and left with her hands, and half crept, half danced
-through the loop-hole openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was
-past eighty, but his blood was not too old to move quicker at the
-sight of this picture. A man must be dead not to thrill at it.
-Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best enhanced by the waving
-gold which now framed her face. She had just enough of olive tint
-in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin without making
-it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy and black,
-but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those who
-came very near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were
-blue, for the heavy black eyebrows and long black lashes so
-shaded and shadowed them that they looked black as night. At the
-same instant that Father Salvierderra first caught sight of her face,
-Ramona also saw him, and crying out joyfully, "Ah, Father, I knew
-you would come by this path, and something told me you were
-near!" she sprang forward, and sank on her knees before him,
-bowing her head for his blessing. In silence he laid his hands on
-her brow. It would not have been easy for him to speak to her at
-that first moment. She had looked to the devout old monk, as she
-sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling on her
-bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, more like an
-apparition of an angel or saint, than like the flesh-and-blood
-maiden whom he had carried in his arms when she was a babe.
-
-"We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!" she
-said, rising. "We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers
-have been sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the
-reason I felt so sure you would come. I knew the Virgin would
-bring you in time for mass in the chapel on the first morning."
-
-The monk smiled half sadly. "Would there were more with such
-faith as yours, daughter," he said. "Are all well on the place?"
-
-"Yes, Father, all well," she answered. "Felipe has been ill with a
-fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for -- for your
-coming."
-
-Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,-- "fretting for the
-sheep-shearing," but recollected herself in time.
-
-"And the Senora?" said the Father.
-
-"She is well," answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change
-of tone,-- so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute
-observer would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever
-she spoke of the Senora Moreno. "And you,-- are you well
-yourself, Father?" she asked affectionately, noting with her quick,
-loving eye how feebly the old man walked, and that he carried
-what she had never before seen in his hand,-- a stout staff to steady
-his steps. "You must be very tired with the long journey on foot."
-
-"Ay, Ramona, I am tired," he replied. "Old age is conquering me. It
-will not be many times more that I shall see this place."
-
-"Oh, do not say that, Father," cried Ramona; "you can ride, when it
-tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day,
-that she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not
-right for you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we
-have hundreds of horses. It is nothing, one horse," she added,
-seeing the Father slowly shake his head.
-
-"No;" he said, "it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the
-hands of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot.
-We must deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land,
-Father Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego
-to Monterey, and all the while a running ulcer in one of his legs,
-for which most men would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a
-sinful fashion that is coming in, for monks to take their ease doing
-God's work. I can no longer walk swiftly, but I must walk all the
-more diligently."
-
-While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward,
-Ramona slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard
-branches, and holding them down till the Father had followed in
-her steps. As they came out from the thicket, she exclaimed,
-laughing, "There is Felipe, in the willows. I told him I was coming
-to meet you, and he laughed at me. Now he will see I was right."
-
-Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw
-Ramona and the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife
-with which he had been cutting the willows, he hastened to meet
-them, and dropped on his knees, as Ramona had done, for the
-monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind blowing his hair
-loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in gentle
-reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate
-welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds
-of times since she became a woman, "How beautiful Felipe is! No
-wonder the Senora loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like
-that she would have liked me better." Never was a little child more
-unconscious of her own beauty than Ramona still was. All the
-admiration which was expressed to her in word and look she took
-for simple kindness and good-will. Her face, as she herself saw it
-in her glass, did not please her. She compared her straight, massive
-black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and delicately pencilled, and
-found her own ugly. The expression of gentle repose which her
-countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of stupidity.
-"Felipe looks so bright!" she thought, as she noted his mobile
-changing face, never for two successive seconds the same. "There
-is nobody like Felipe." And when his brown eyes were fixed on
-her, as they so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked
-steadily back into their velvet depths with an abstracted sort of
-intensity which profoundly puzzled Felipe. It was this look, more
-than any other one thing, which had for two years held Felipe's
-tongue in leash, as it were, and made it impossible for him to say
-to Ramona any of the loving things of which his heart had been
-full ever since he could remember. The boy had spoken them
-unhesitatingly, unconsciously; but the man found himself suddenly
-afraid. "What is it she thinks when she looks into my eyes so?" he
-wondered. If he had known that the thing she was usually thinking
-was simply, "How much handsomer brown eyes are than blue! I
-wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!" he would have perceived,
-perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known it,
-that a girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look
-at him as a lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw
-only enough to perplex and deter him.
-
-As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at
-the gate of the garden. She was holding something white in her
-hands, looking down at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived
-Ramona, she made an eager leap forward, and then shrank back
-again, making dumb signals of distress to her. Her whole attitude
-was one of misery and entreaty. Margarita was, of all the maids,
-most beloved by Ramona. Though they were nearly of the same
-age, it had been Margarita who first had charge of Ramona; the
-nurse and her charge had played together, grown up together,
-become women together, and were now, although Margarita never
-presumed on the relation, or forgot to address Ramona as Senorita,
-more like friends than like mistress and maid.
-
-"Pardon me, Father," said Ramona. "I see that Margarita there is in
-trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be
-with you again in a few moments." And kissing his hand, she flew
-rather than ran across the field to the foot of the garden.
-
-Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground
-and buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained
-linen lay at her feet.
-
-"What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?" cried Ramona,
-in the affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed
-one wet hand from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair
-to the crumpled linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her
-face again in her hands.
-
-Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary
-cry of dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled,
-and she gasped out, "Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never
-be mended, and it will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning.
-When I saw the Father coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin
-to let me die. The Senora will never forgive me."
-
-It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth
-which the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one
-solid front of beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing
-out part of the threads and sewing the remainder into intricate
-patterns, the cloth which had always been on the altar, when mass
-was said, since Margarita's and Ramona's earliest recollections,--
-there it lay, torn, stained, as if it had been dragged through muddy
-brambles. In silence, aghast, Ramona opened it out and held it up.
-"How did it happen, Margarita?" she whispered, glancing in terror
-up towards the house.
-
-"Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!" sobbed the girl. "That is the
-worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it had
-happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but
-she never will. I would rather die than tell her;" and she shook
-from head to foot.
-
-"Stop crying, Margarita!" said Ramona, firmly, "and tell me all
-about it. It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it."
-
-"Oh, the saints bless you!" cried Margarita, looking up for the first
-time. "Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will
-mend that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!"
-
-Ramona laughed in spite of herself. "You'll serve me better by
-keeping on your feet," she said merrily; at which Margarita
-laughed too, through her tears. They were both young.
-
-"Oh, but Senorita," Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her
-tears flowing afresh, "there is not time! It must be washed and
-ironed to-night, for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to
-help at the supper. Anita and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know,
-and Maria has gone away for a week. The Senora said if the Father
-came to-night I must help mother, and must wait on table. It
-cannot be done. I was just going to iron it now, and I found it -- so
--- It was in the artichoke-patch, and Capitan, the beast, had been
-tossing it among the sharp pricks of the old last year's seeds."
-
-"In the artichoke-patch!" ejaculated Ramona. "How under heavens
-did it get there?"
-
-"Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would
-forgive me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to
-dry on the fence there; and if I had only washed it when she first
-told me, two days ago, all would have been well. But I forgot it till
-this afternoon, and there was no sun in the court to dry it, and you
-know how the sun lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a strong
-cloth over the fence, so that the wood should not pierce the lace,
-and I did not leave it more than half an hour, just while I said a
-few words to Luigo, and there was no wind; and I believe the
-saints must have fetched it down to the ground to punish me for
-my disobedience."
-
-Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn
-places, "It is not so bad as it looks," she said; "if it were not for the
-hurry, there would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the
-best I can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after
-the Father is gone, I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as
-good as new. I think I can mend it and wash it before dark," and
-she glanced at the sun. "Oh, yes, there are good three hours of
-daylight yet. I can do it. You put the irons on the fire, to have them
-hot, to iron it as soon as it is partly dried. You will see it will not
-show that anything has happened to it."
-
-"Will the Senora know?" asked poor Margarita, calmed and
-reassured, but still in mortal terror.
-
-Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. "You
-would not be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?" she
-said gravely.
-
-"O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?"
-pleaded the girl.
-
-"I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended," said
-Ramona; but she did not smile.
-
-"Ah, Senorita," said Margarita, deprecatingly, "you do not know
-what it is to have the Senora displeased with one."
-
-"Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self,"
-retorted Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the
-linen rolled up under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she
-met no one on the way. The Senora had welcomed Father
-Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda steps, and had immediately
-closeted herself with him. She had much to say to him,-- much
-about which she wished his help and counsel, and much which she
-wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in the
-country generally.
-
-Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if
-everything were ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next
-day, if the shearers arrived in time; and there was very good
-chance of their coming in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for
-he had privately instructed his messenger to make all possible
-haste, and to impress on the Indians the urgent need of their losing
-no time on the road.
-
-It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the
-messenger to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to
-the Father's movements. But as day after day passed and no news
-came, even she perceived that it would not do to put off the
-sheep-shearing much longer, or, as Juan Canito said, "forever."
-The Father might have fallen ill; and if that were so, it might very
-easily be weeks before they heard of it, so scanty were the means
-of communication between the remote places on his route of
-visitation. The messenger had therefore been sent to summon the
-Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned herself to the
-inevitable; piously praying, however, morning and night, and at
-odd moments in the day, that the Father might arrive before the
-Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-walk,
-leaning on the arm of her Felipe, on the afternoon of the very day
-which was the earliest possible day for the Indians to arrive, it was
-not strange that she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her
-long-loved friend and confessor, a triumphant exultation that the
-saints had heard her prayers.
-
-In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into
-the house was a signal for unwonted activities there,-- even the
-coming of Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup
-had force-meat balls in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to
-her the last extreme of indifference to good things of the flesh.
-"But if he will not eat, he can see," she said; and her pride for
-herself and for the house was enlisted in setting forth as goodly an
-array of viands as her larder afforded, She grew suddenly
-fastidious over the size and color of the cabbages to go into the
-beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full of rice, because
-Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two.
-
-"Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always
-two onions?" she exclaimed. "It is the dish he most favors of all;
-and it is a pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good
-beef he should take now."
-
-The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from
-the kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small
-messengers going back and forth between the rooms. It was the
-highest ambition of each child to be allowed to fetch and carry
-dishes in the preparation of the meals at all times; but when by so
-doing they could perchance get a glimpse through the dining-room
-door, open on the veranda, of strangers and guests, their restless
-rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita, between her own
-private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping in the
-kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her army
-of infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught,
-however, but that she remembered and found time to seize a
-lighted candle in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of
-Saint Francis of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly whispering a
-prayer that the lace might be made whole like new. Several times
-before the afternoon had waned she snatched a moment to fling
-herself down at the statue's feet and pray her foolish little prayer
-over again. We think we are quite sure that it is a foolish little
-prayer, when people pray to have torn lace made whole. But it
-would be hard to show the odds between asking that, and asking
-that it may rain, or that the sick may get well. As the grand old
-Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they pray to God, is,
-that two and two may not make four. All the same he is to be
-pitied who prays not. It was only the thought of that candle at Saint
-Francis's feet, which enabled Margarita to struggle through this
-anxious and unhappy afternoon and evening.
-
-At last supper was ready,-- a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage
-in the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat
-balls and red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one
-with the boiled rice and onions, the other with the delicious
-frijoles (beans) so dear to all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes
-filled with hot stewed pears, or preserved quinces, or grape jelly;
-plates of frosted cakes of various sorts; and a steaming silver
-teakettle, from which went up an aroma of tea such as had never
-been bought or sold in all California, the Senora's one
-extravagance and passion.
-
-"Where is Ramona?" asked the Senora, surprised and displeased,
-as she entered the dining-room, "Margarita, go tell the Senorita
-that we are waiting for her."
-
-Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door.
-What would happen now! "O Saint Francis," she inwardly prayed,
-"help us this once!"
-
-"Stay," said Felipe. "Do not call Senorita Ramona." Then, turning
-to his mother, "Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She
-has a duty to perform for to-morrow," he said; and he looked
-meaningly at his mother, adding, "we will not wait for her."
-
-Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table
-in a mechanical way, and began, "But --" Felipe, seeing that
-questions were to follow, interrupted her: "I have just spoken with
-her. It is impossible for her to come;" and turning to Father
-Salvierderra, he at once engaged him in conversation, and left the
-baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied curiosity as best she could.
-
-Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound
-gratitude, which he did not observe, and would not in the least
-have understood; for Ramona had not confided to him any details
-of the disaster. Seeing him under her window, she had called
-cautiously to him, and said: "Dear Felipe, do you think you can
-save me from having to come to supper? A dreadful accident has
-happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it and wash it, and
-there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call me; I shall be
-down at the brook, and they will not find me, and your mother will
-be displeased."
-
-This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything,
-so far as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far
-less serious than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last
-of them was skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the
-sinking sun came streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of
-the garden, Ramona, darting down the garden, had reached the
-brook, and kneeling on the grass, had dipped the linen into the
-water.
-
-Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her
-cheeks scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had
-loosened and her hair fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up
-the comb and thrust it in her pocket, she had sped on, as it would
-soon be too dark for her to see the stains on the linen, and it was
-going to be no small trouble to get them out without fraying the
-lace.
-
-Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders,
-her whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent
-low over the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the
-water, anxiously scanning it, then plunging it in again.
-
-The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole
-place was aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into
-transcendent beauty. A sound arrested her attention. She looked
-up. Forms, dusky black against the fiery western sky, were coming
-down the valley. It was the band of Indian shearers. They turned to
-the left, and went towards the sheep sheds and booths. But there
-was one of them that Ramona did not see. He had been standing
-for some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree a few rods
-from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was Alessandro,
-son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking slowly
-along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror
-held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the
-glittering water where Ramona knelt. In the same second he saw
-Ramona.
-
-He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed;
-walked abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his
-disappearance. Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the
-shelter of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could gaze
-unperceived on the beautiful vision,-- for so it seemed to him.
-
-As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he
-spoke aloud; "Christ! What shall I do!"
-
-V
-
-THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the
-Senora Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a
-window to the south and one to the east. When the first glow of
-dawn came in the sky, this eastern window was lit up as by a fire.
-The Father was always on watch for it, having usually been at
-prayer for hours. As the first ray reached the window, he would
-throw the casement wide open, and standing there with bared
-head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in all devout
-Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly
-abandoned. At the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the
-family arose, and began singing some hymn familiar to the
-household. It was the duty of each person hearing it to immediately
-rise, or at least sit up in bed, and join in the singing. In a few
-moments the whole family would be singing, and the joyous
-sounds pouring out from the house like the music of the birds in
-the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually invocations to the
-Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies were sweet and
-simple.
-
-On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides
-Father Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly
-wandering about since midnight, and had finally seated himself
-under the willow-trees by the brook, at the spot where he had seen
-Ramona the evening before. He recollected this custom of the
-sunrise hymn when he and his band were at the Senora's the last
-year, and he had chanced then to learn that the Father slept in the
-southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could see the south
-window of this room. He could also see the low eastern horizon, at
-which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like
-amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not a
-sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without
-difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space.
-Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to
-believe that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming
-up apace, and the earth was standing still,-- a belief just as grand,
-just as thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other: men
-worshipped the sun long before they found out that it stood still.
-Not the most reverent astronomer, with the mathematics of the
-heavens at his tongue's end, could have had more delight in the
-wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than did this simple-minded,
-unlearned man.
-
-His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light,
-to the windows of the house, yet dark and still. "Which window is
-hers? Will she open it when the song begins?" he thought. "Is it on
-this side of the house? Who can she be? She was not here last year.
-Saw the saints ever so beautiful a creature!"
-
-At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang
-to his feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his
-south window, and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray
-locks streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice
-to sing,--
-
-"O beautiful Queen,
-Princess of Heaven."
-
-Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had
-joined in,-- the Senora, from her room at the west end of the
-veranda, beyond the flowers; Felipe, from the adjoining room;
-Ramona, from hers, the next; and Margarita and other of the maids
-already astir in the wings of the house. As the volume of melody
-swelled, the canaries waked, and the finches and the linnets in the
-veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were laid on bundles of tule
-reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build their nests. The roof
-was alive with them,-- scores and scores, nay hundreds, tame as
-chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the tuning of myriads of
-violins.
-
-"Singers at dawn
-From the heavens above
-People all regions;
-Gladly we too sing,"
-
-continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's
-voices joined in,-- Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking
-slowly up from the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one,
-known to all.
-
-"Come, O sinners,
-Come, and we will sing
-Tender hymns
-To our refuge,"
-
-was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn.
-
-Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had
-been the leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last
-years of its splendor, and had brought away with him much of the
-old choir music. Some of the books had been written by his own
-hand, on parchment. He not only sang well, but was a good player
-on the violin. There was not at any of the Missions so fine a band
-of performers on stringed instruments as at San Luis Rey. Father
-Peyri was passionately fond of music, and spared no pains in
-training all the neophytes under his charge who showed any
-special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the breaking up
-of the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band of his
-Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep up the
-old religious services. The music in the little chapel of the
-Temecula Indians was a surprise to all who heard it.
-
-Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and
-knew all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the
-
-"Beautiful Queen,
-Princess of Heaven,"
-
-was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse
-rising, he could not forbear striking in.
-
-At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in
-surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly
-looking in all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw
-her, and sang no more.
-
-"What could it have been? Did I dream it?" thought Ramona, drew
-in her head, and began to sing again.
-
-With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes.
-They seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as
-a great wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice.
-Felipe had a good tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear
-him; but this -- this was from another world, this sound. Ramona
-felt every note of it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle
-thrill almost like pain. When the hymn ended, she listened eagerly,
-hoping Father Salvierderra would strike up a second hymn, as he
-often did; but he did not this morning; there was too much to be
-done; everybody was in a hurry to be at work: windows shut, doors
-opened; the sounds of voices from all directions, ordering,
-questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun rose and let a
-flood of work-a-day light on the whole place.
-
-Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt
-thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the
-snowy altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least,
-as good as new.
-
-The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were
-coming towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk
-handkerchief bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging
-down each side of her face, making her look like an Assyrian
-priestess, was descending the veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and
-Father Salvierderra had already entered the chapel before Ramona
-appeared, or Alessandro stirred from his vantage-post of
-observation at the willows.
-
-When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a
-high silver urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days
-gathering and hoarding these. They were hard to find, growing
-only in one place in a rocky canon, several miles away.
-
-As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked
-slowly up the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and,
-without knowing why, thought, "That must be the Indian who
-sang." As she turned to the right and entered the chapel,
-Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and knelt on the stones close to
-the chapel door. He would be near when she came out. As he
-looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, place the ferns
-on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in front of the
-altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a look as of
-secret intelligence.
-
-"Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife," thought
-Alessandro, and a strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it;
-hardly knew what it meant. He was only twenty-one. He had not
-thought much about women. He was a distant, cold boy, his own
-people of the Temecula village said. It had come, they believed, of
-learning to read, which was always bad. Chief Pablo had not done
-his son any good by trying to make him like white men. If the
-Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission have gone
-on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers, as
-his father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand
-man at the Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid
-the wages; handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But
-that was "in the time of the king;" it was very different now. The
-Americans would not let an Indian do anything but plough and sow
-and herd cattle. A man need not read and write, to do that.
-
-Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in
-teaching Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his
-race, wise and far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his
-people on all sides. Father Peyri, before he left the country, had
-said to him: "Pablo, your people will be driven like sheep to the
-slaughter, unless you keep them together. Knit firm bonds between
-them; band them into pueblos; make them work; and above all,
-keep peace with the whites. It is your only chance."
-
-Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's
-directions. He had set his people the example of constant industry,
-working steadily in his fields and caring well for his herds. He had
-built a chapel in his little village, and kept up forms of religious
-service there. Whenever there were troubles with the whites, or
-rumors of them, he went from house to house, urging, persuading,
-commanding his people to keep the peace. At one time when there
-was an insurrection of some of the Indian tribes farther south, and
-for a few days it looked as if there would be a general Indian war,
-he removed the greater part of his band, men, women, and children
-driving their flocks and herds with them, to Los Angeles, and
-camped there for several days, that they might be identified with
-the whites in case hostilities became serious.
-
-But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With
-every day that the intercourse between his people and the whites
-increased, he saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing
-ground, and his anxieties deepened. The Mexican owner of the.
-Temecula valley, a friend of Father Peyri's, and a good friend also
-of Pablo's, had returned to Mexico in disgust with the state of
-affairs in California, and was reported to be lying at the point of
-death. This man's promise to Pablo, that he and his people should
-always live in the valley undisturbed, was all the title Pablo had to
-the village lands. In the days when the promise was given, it was
-all that was necessary. The lines marking off the Indians' lands
-were surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No Mexican
-proprietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or village. thus
-placed on his lands.
-
-But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that
-such pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held
-as of no value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was
-intelligent enough to see that if this were so, he and his people
-were ruined. All these perplexities and fears he confided to
-Alessandro; long anxious hours the father and son spent together,
-walking back and forth in the village, or sitting in front of their
-little adobe house, discussing what could be done. There was
-always the same ending to the discussion,-- a long sigh, and, "We
-must wait, we can do nothing."
-
-No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and
-thoughtless young men and women of his village, a cold and
-distant lad. He was made old before his time. He was carrying in
-his heart burdens of which they knew nothing. So long as the
-wheat fields came up well, and there was no drought, and the
-horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the hills, the
-Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy work,
-play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro
-and his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason
-why Alessandro had not yet thought about women, in way of love;
-this, and .also the fact that even the little education he had
-received was sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of which he was
-unconsciously aware, between him and the maidens of the village.
-If a quick, warm fancy for any one of them ever stirred in his
-veins, he found himself soon, he knew not how, cured of it. For a
-dance, or a game, or a friendly chat, for the trips into the
-mountains after acorns, or to the marshes for grasses and reeds, he
-was their good comrade, and they were his; but never had the
-desire to take one of them for his wife, entered into Alessandro's
-mind. The vista of the future, for him, was filled full by thoughts
-which left no room for love's dreaming; one purpose and one fear
-filled it,-- the purpose to be his father's worthy successor, for Pablo
-was old now, and very feeble; the fear, that exile and ruin were in
-store for them all.
-
-It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in
-advance of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw
-Ramona kneeling at the brook. Between that moment and the
-present, it seemed to Alessandro that some strange miracle must
-have happened to him. The purposes and the fears had alike gone.
-A face replaced them; a vague wonder, pain, joy, he knew not
-what, filled him so to overflowing that he was bewildered. If he
-had been what the world calls a civilized man, he would have
-known instantly and would have been capable of weighing,
-analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was
-not a civilized man; he had to bring to bear on his present situation
-only simple, primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If
-Ramona had been a maiden of his own people or race, he would
-have drawn near to her as quickly as iron to the magnet. But now,
-if he had gone so far as to even think of her in such a way, she
-would have been, to his view, as far removed from him as was the
-morning star beneath whose radiance he had that morning
-watched, hoping for sight of her at her window. He did not,
-however, go so far as to thus think of her. Even that would have
-been impossible. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel
-door, mechanically repeating the prayers with the rest, waiting for
-her to reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was Senor Felipe's
-wife; all the same he wished to kneel there till she came out, that
-he might see her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, had
-narrowed now down to that,-- just one more sight of her. Ever so
-civilized, he could hardly have worshipped a woman better. The
-mass seemed to him endlessly long. Until near the last, he forgot to
-sing; then, in the closing of the final hymn, he suddenly
-remembered, and the clear deep-toned voice pealed out, as before,
-like the undertone of a great sea-wave, sweeping along.
-
-Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was
-as much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from
-her knees, she whispered to Felipe: "Felipe, do find out which one
-of the Indians it is has that superb voice. I never heard anything
-like it."
-
-"Oh, that is Alessandro," replied Felipe, "old Pablo's son. He is a
-splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?"
-
-"I was not here," replied Ramona; "you forget."
-
-"Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten," said Felipe. "Well,
-he was here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though
-he was only twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They
-saved nearly all their money to carry home, and I never knew them
-do such a thing before. Father Salvierderra was here, which might
-have had something to do with it; but I think it was quite as much
-Alessandro. He plays the violin beautifully. I hope he has brought
-it along. He plays the old San Luis Rey music. His father was
-band-master there."
-
-Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. "Does your mother like it, to
-have him play?" she asked.
-
-Felipe nodded. "We'll have him up on the veranda tonight," he
-said.
-
-While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had
-emptied, the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the
-day's work. Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he
-dared, till he was sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back:
-"What are you gaping at there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and
-get your men to work. After waiting till near midsummer for this
-shearing, we'll make as quick work of it as we can. Have you got
-your best shearers here?"
-
-"Ay, that I have," answered Alessandro; "not a man of them but
-can shear his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in
-all San Diego County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding,
-either; you'll see scarce a scratch on their sides."
-
-"Humph." retorted Juan Can. "'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that
-draws blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my
-day, and never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have
-always been famed for good shearers."
-
-Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans" did not escape
-Alessandro. "And we Indians also," he answered, good-naturedly,
-betraying no annoyance; "but as for these Americans, I saw one at
-work the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula,
-and upon my faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and
-not a shearing. The poor beasts limped off with the blood running."
-
-Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting
-rejoinder to this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the
-equal superiority of Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing
-art; so, much vexed, with another "Humph!" he walked away;
-walked away so fast, that he lost the sight of a smile on
-Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still further.
-
-At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The
-shearing shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,-- a long,
-narrow structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof
-and pillars; no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart
-as was safe, for the upholding of the roof, which was of rough
-planks loosely laid from beam to beam. On three sides of this were
-the sheep-pens filled with sheep and lambs.
-
-A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was
-to be cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary
-affairs, roofed only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near
-these, the Indians had already arranged their camp; a hut or two of
-green boughs had been built, but for the most part they would
-sleep rolled up in their blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk
-wind, and the gay colored wings of the windmill blew furiously
-round and round, pumping out into the tank below a stream of
-water so swift and strong, that as the men crowded around, wetting
-and sharpening their knives, they got well spattered, and had much
-merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into the spray.
-
-A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung
-from the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which
-the fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground
-at the foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. "We'll
-fill more than those before night, Senor Felipe," he said. He was in
-his element, Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for
-the somewhat monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held
-no better feast for his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales
-of fleece, tied, stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn
-away to the mills. "Now, there is something substantial," he
-thought; "no chance of wool going amiss in market!"
-
-If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the
-next six months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately,
-and spent the next six months calling on the saints for better luck,
-and redoubling his exertions with the sheep.
-
-On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed,
-like half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up
-these, to the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the
-fleeces and pack them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed
-up from below. Luigo, with a big leathern wallet fastened in front
-of him, filled with five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of
-the shed. The thirty shearers, running into the nearest pen, dragged
-each his sheep into the shed, in a twinkling of an eye had the
-creature between his knees, helpless, immovable, and the sharp
-sound of the shears set in. The sheep-shearing had begun. No rest
-now. Not a second's silence from the bleating, baa-ing, opening
-and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, flying of fleeces
-through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping them down in
-the bales; not a second's intermission, except the hour of rest at
-noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight thousand of the
-Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As
-soon as a sheep was shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his
-hand to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his five-cent
-piece, dropped it in his pocket, ran to the pen, dragged out another
-sheep, and in less than five minutes was back again with a second
-fleece. The shorn sheep, released, bounded off into another pen,
-where, light in the head no doubt from being three to five pounds
-lighter on their legs, they trotted round bewilderedly for a moment,
-then flung up their heels and capered for joy.
-
-It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling
-feet filled the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat
-poured off the men's faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on
-the roof, found out very soon that he had by no means yet got back
-his full strength since the fever. Long before noon, except for sheer
-pride, and for the recollection of Juan Canito's speech, he would
-have come down and yielded his place to the old man. But he was
-resolved not to give up, and he worked on, though his face was
-purple and his head throbbing. After the bag of fleeces is half full,
-the packer stands in it, jumping with his full weight on the wool,
-as he throws in the fleeces, to compress them as much as possible.
-When Felipe began to do this, he found that he had indeed
-overrated his strength. As the first cloud of the sickening dust
-came up, enveloping his head, choking his breath, he turned
-suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, "Juan, I am ill," sank helpless
-down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan Canito's scream of
-dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw instantly what
-had happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the
-bag, Juan in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his side
-to lift him. One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until
-they were all standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one
-proposing one thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence
-of mind to run to the house for help. The Senora was away from
-home. She had gone with Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a
-half-day's journey off. But Ramona was there. Snatching all she
-could think of in way of restoratives, she came flying back with
-Luigo, followed by every servant of the establishment, all talking,
-groaning, gesticulating, suggesting, wringing their hands,-- as
-disheartening a Babel as ever made bad matters worse.
-
-Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered.
-"Where is he?" she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held
-in Juan Canito's arms, just above the edge of the wool-bag. She
-groaned, "Oh, how will he ever be lifted out!"
-
-"I will lift him, Senora," cried Alessandro, coming to the front, "I
-am very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down." And
-swinging himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and
-returned, bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the
-roof again, he knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them
-at the middle around his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling
-them to hold him firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was
-hurriedly doing this, and Ramona did not at first understand his
-plan. But when she saw the Indians move a little back from the
-edge of the roof, holding the blankets firm grasped, while
-Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow cross-beams from
-which the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She held her
-breath. Felipe was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier,
-and many inches taller. Still, could any man carry such a burden
-safely on that narrow beam! Ramona looked away, and shut her
-eyes, through the silence which followed. It was only a few
-moments; but it seemed an eternity before a glad murmur of voices
-told her that it was done, and looking up, she saw Felipe lying on
-the roof, unconscious, his face white, his eyes shut. At this sight,
-all the servants broke out afresh, weeping and wailing, "He is
-dead! He is dead!"
-
-Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too,
-believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora.
-
-"He is not dead," cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under
-Felipe's shirt. "He is not dead. It is only a faint,"
-
-At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked
-piteously at the ladder up and down which she had seen
-Alessandro run as if it were an easy indoor staircase. "If I could
-only get up there!" she said, looking from one to another. "I think I
-can;" and she put one foot on the lower round.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. "Senorita!
-Senorita! do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will
-break your neck. He is fast coming to his senses."
-
-Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror
-of the scene, his heart heard the word, "Senorita." Ramona was not
-the wife of Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that
-he had addressed her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised.
-Coming to the front of the group he said, bending forward,
-"Senorita!" There must have been something in the tone which
-made Ramona start. The simple word could not have done it.
-"Senorita," said Alessandro, "it will be nothing to bring Senor
-Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more than one of the
-lambs yonder. I will bring him down as soon as he is recovered. He
-is better here till then. He will very soon be himself again. It was
-only the heat." Seeing that the expression of anxious distress did
-not grow less on Ramona's face, he continued, in a tone still more
-earnest, "Will not the Senorita trust me to bring him safe down?"
-
-Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. "Yes," she said, "I will
-trust you. You are Alessandro, are you not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita," he answered, greatly surprised, "I am Alessandro."
-
-VI
-
-A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora
-Moreno's sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously
-prejudiced against Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it,
-would have found, in the way things fell out, ample reason for a
-belief that the Senora was being punished for having let all the
-affairs of her place come to a standstill, to await the coming of an
-old monk. But the pious Senora, looking at the other side of the
-shield, was filled with gratitude that, since all this ill luck was to
-befall her, she had the good Father Salvierderra at her side to give
-her comfort and counsel.
-
-It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and
-fell in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third,
-when Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had
-taken Senor Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam
-to the ground, and broke his right leg,-- a bad break near the knee;
-and Juan Canito's bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He
-would never again be able to do more than hobble about on
-crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was a cruel blow to the
-old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith in his saints,
-and privately indulged in blasphemous beratings and reproaches of
-them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had she
-known that such blasphemies were being committed under her
-roof.
-
-"As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!" cried
-Juan; "only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and
-there was that whole box of candles I paid for with my own money
-last month, and burned to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very
-sheep-shearing! He may sit in the dark, for all me, to the end of
-time! He is no saint at all! What are they for, if not to keep us from
-harm when we pray to them? I'll pray no more. I believe the
-Americans are right, who laugh at us." From morning till night,
-and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he slept
-little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and swore and
-grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita
-said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was
-no pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a
-minute. For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that
-the fiends had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had
-had their reasons for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and
-suspicion gradually grew up in the minds of all the servants
-towards him. His own reckless language, combined with
-Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believing
-that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the Devil
-was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old
-man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation
-he had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men
-and women, drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling
-him all that was going on; and when by degrees they dropped off,
-coming more and more seldom, and one by one leaving off coming
-altogether, it was the one drop that overflowed his cup of misery;
-and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling, and spoke
-only when he must.
-
-This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she
-thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to
-the Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went
-through the needful ministrations for him each day. Three months,
-at least, the doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had
-said he must lie still in bed and be thus tended. "Three months!"
-sighed Margarita. "If I be not dead or gone crazy myself before the
-end of that be come!"
-
-The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give
-thought to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and
-beginning of a fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his
-bed, tossing and raving in delirium, always about the wool.
-
-"Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more;
-a round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain! -- Jesus,
-how this sun burns my head!"
-
-Several times he had called "Alessandro" so earnestly, that Father
-Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if
-by any chance there might have been something in his mind that he
-wished to say to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside,
-Felipe gazed at him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still
-repeating, however, "Alessandro! Alessandro!"
-
-"I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin," sobbed
-out Ramona. "He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro
-played, and said he would have him up on the veranda in the
-evening to play to us."
-
-"We might try it," said Father Salvierderra. "Have you your violin
-here, Alessandro?"
-
-"Alas, no, Father," replied Alessandro, "I did not bring it."
-
-"Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then," said
-Ramona. "He was speaking of your voice also."
-
-"Oh, try, try." said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. "Sing
-something low and soft."
-
-Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after
-thinking for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the
-masses.
-
-At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening.
-An expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned
-his head to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his
-eyes. The three watching him looked at each other in
-astonishment.
-
-"It is a miracle," said Father Salvierderra. "He will sleep."
-
-"It was what he wanted!" whispered Ramona.
-
-The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a
-second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were
-praying to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang
-lower and lower, till the notes sounded as if they came from afar;
-lower and lower, slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away
-lost in distance. As they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
-
-"Oh, go on, go on!" the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with
-anxiety. "Do not stop!"
-
-Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled;
-the air in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he
-felt something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to
-sleep by reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing
-in Alessandro's healthy outdoor experience to enable him to
-understand such a phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more
-slowly, softly, regularly; soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing
-stopped; Felipe did not stir.
-
-"Can I go?" whispered Alessandro.
-
-"No, no." replied the Senora, impatiently. "He may wake any
-minute."
-
-Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and
-remained standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was
-kneeling on one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at
-the foot,-- all praying; the silence was so great that the slight
-sounds of the rosary beads slipping against each other seemed
-loud. In a niche in the wall, at the head of the bed, stood a statue of
-the Madonna, on the other side a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles
-were burning before each. The long wicks smouldered and died
-down, sputtering, then flared up again as the ends fell into the
-melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the Madonna. The
-Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming
-down her face as she mechanically told her beads.
-
-"She is his betrothed, no doubt," thought Alessandro. "The saints
-will not let him die;" and Alessandro also prayed. But the
-oppression of the scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on
-the low window-sill, he vaulted over it, saying to Ramona, who
-turned her head at the sound, "I will not go away, Senorita, I will
-be close under the window, if he awakes."
-
-Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed
-bewilderedly about him, like one just recovering consciousness
-after a faint. Then he threw himself on the ground under the
-window, and lay looking up into the sky. Capitan came up, and
-with a low whine stretched himself out at full length by his side.
-The dog knew as well as any other one of the house that danger
-and anguish were there.
-
-One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room.
-Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the
-Senora had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving
-in prayer. But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her
-knees into a sitting posture, with her head leaning against the post
-of the bedstead, and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen and
-discolored by weeping, and heavy circles under her eyes told how
-tired she was. For three days and nights she had scarcely rested, so
-constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's illness and
-Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be done,
-or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and
-through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down with
-grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till she
-saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her inexperience
-thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But
-now, at the very thought of what it would be to live without him,
-her heart sickened. "When he is buried, I will ask Father
-Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here alone," she said
-to herself, never for a moment perceiving that the word "alone"
-was a strange one to have come into her mind in the connection.
-The thought of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations of
-the future which so smote her with terror. In the Senora's presence,
-Ramona always felt herself alone.
-
-Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the
-sill, his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a
-lover's eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro
-she looked more beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the
-wall beyond. With a lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which
-had written such lines on her face in the last three days. "It will kill
-her if he dies," he thought, "if these three days have made her look
-like that." And Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his
-face down. He did not know whether it were an hour or a day that
-he had lain there, when he heard Father Salvierderra's voice
-speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old monk standing in
-the window, tears running down his cheeks. "God be praised," he
-said, "the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has broken out on his
-skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in his right
-mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we
-know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without
-you, and remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain
-in Juan Can's place till he is about. She will give you the same
-wages he had. Would it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro?
-You cannot be sure of earning so much as that for the next three
-months, can you?"
-
-While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in
-Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses
-which were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their
-pulling in opposite directions; one saying "Stay!" and the other
-saying "Go!" He would not have known what any one meant, who
-had said to him, "It is danger to stay; it is safety to fly." All the
-same, he felt as if he could do neither.
-
-"There is another shearing yet, Father," he began, "at the Ortega's
-ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here,
-and they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It
-will not do to break the promise, Father."
-
-Father Salvierderra's face fell. "No, my son, certainly not," he said;
-"but could no one else take your place with the band?"
-
-Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning
-out, whispered, "Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let
-me come and talk to him. He must not go." And running swiftly
-through the hall, across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood
-by Alessandro's side in a moment. Looking up in his face
-pleadingly, she said: "We can't let you go, Alessandro. The Senor
-will pay wages to some other to go in your place with the shearers.
-We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place till he is well. Don't
-say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing again, and what
-would we do then? Can't you stay?"
-
-"Yes, I can stay, Senorita," answered Alessandro, gravely. "I will
-stay so long as you need me."
-
-"Oh, thank you, Alessandro!" Ramona cried. "You are good, to
-stay. The Senora will see that it is no loss to you;" and she flew
-back to the house.
-
-"It is not for the wages, Senorita," Alessandro began; but Ramona
-was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense
-of humiliation. "I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the
-money kept me," he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. "I would
-not leave the band for money; it is to help, because they are in
-trouble, Father."
-
-"Yes, yes, son. I understand that," replied the monk, who had
-known Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the
-corridors of San Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. "That is
-quite right of you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is
-not for such things that money can pay. They are indeed in great
-trouble now, and only the two women in the house; and I must
-soon be going on my way North again."
-
-"Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?" asked Alessandro.
-
-"I think so," replied Father Salvierderra. "These relapses are
-always worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to
-die, after he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got
-good sleep. I doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many
-days, and there will be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to
-have Juan Can laid up, too, just at this time. I must go and see him;
-I hear he is in most rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes
-impiously."
-
-"That does he!" said Alessandro. "He swears the saints gave him
-over to the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of
-them from this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him
-to worse things yet if he did not mend his speech of them."
-
-Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: "It is but a
-sign of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are
-being corrupted. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still,
-and does a priest come often to the village?"
-
-"Only twice a year," replied Alessandro; "and sometimes for a
-funeral, if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my
-father has the chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we
-know of the mass; and the people are often there praying."
-
-"Ay, ay! Ever for money!" groaned Father Salvierderra, not
-heeding the latter part of the sentence. "Ever for money! It is a
-shame. But that it were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go
-myself to Temecula once in three months; but I may not. The
-priests do not love our order."
-
-"Oh, if you could, Father," exclaimed Alessandro, "it would make
-my father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he
-sees between the words of the Church now and in the days of the
-Mission. He is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village.
-They say the Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive
-the Indians away as if they were dogs; they say we have no right to
-our lands. Do you think that can be so, Father, when we have
-always lived on them, and the owners promised them to us
-forever?"
-
-Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and
-Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating
-for words to convey his meaning. At last he said: "Got your father
-any notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,--
-notice to appear before a court, or anything about a title to the
-land?"
-
-"No, Father," replied Alessandro.
-
-"There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,"
-continued the monk; "some notice, before any steps can be taken
-to remove Indians from an estate. It must be done according to the
-law, in the courts. If you have had no such notice, you are not in
-danger."
-
-"But, Father," persisted Alessandro, "how could there be a law to
-take away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us
-forever?"
-
-"Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?"
-
-"No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was
-marked off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all
-the boundaries of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many
-instruments of brass and wood to measure with, and a long chain,
-very heavy, which I helped them carry. I myself saw it marked on
-the map. They all slept in my father's house,-- Senor Valdez, and
-Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He hired one of
-our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I wished
-to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose
-told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It
-seemed to me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know
-it is all marked on the map, for it was with a red line; and my
-father understood it, and Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both
-pointed to it with their finger, and they said, 'All this here is your
-land, Pablo, always.' I do not think my father need fear, do you?"
-
-"I hope not," replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; "but since the
-way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have
-small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take
-all that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their
-hands."
-
-"That is what my father says," replied Alessandro. "He says, 'Look
-at San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all
-their vast lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If
-the Church and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we
-Indians do?' That is what my father says."
-
-"True, true!" said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room
-where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see
-Father Salvierderra's face coming in. "We are all alike helpless in
-their hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make
-what laws they please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'" and
-he crossed himself devoutly, repeating the words twice.
-
-Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was
-full of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he
-walked on towards the shearing-shed he thought: "Then, again,
-how can it be God's will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's
-will that one man should steal from another all he has. That would
-make God no better than a thief, it looks to me. But how can it
-happen, if it is not God's will?"
-
-It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this
-formula. Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before
-Alessandro, had grappled with the problem in one shape or
-another.
-
-At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and
-ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the
-morning, and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's?
-Waiting all day,-- it was now near sunset,-- with nothing to do, and
-still worse with not much of anything to eat, had made them all
-cross; and no wonder. The economical Juan Can, finding that the
-work would be done by ten, and supposing they would be off
-before noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the day
-before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her
-cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the family needed
-themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry day of it,
-in no wise alleviated either by the reports brought from time to
-time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under
-Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to.
-
-It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the
-announcement of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a
-clean breast of it in few words, and diplomatically diverted all
-resentment from himself by setting them immediately to voting for
-a new captain to take his place for the remainder of the season.
-
-"Very well!" they said hotly; "captain for this year, captain for
-next, too!" It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the
-captaincy of the shearers!
-
-"All right," said Alessandro; "please yourselves! It is all the same
-to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father
-Salvierderra wishes it."
-
-"Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different." "Ah, that alters the
-case!" "Alessandro is right!" came up in confused murmur from
-the appeased crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of
-the Temecula men, and would never think of going against the
-Father's orders. But when they understood that Alessandro's
-intention was to remain until Juan Canito's leg should be well
-enough for him to go about again, fresh grumblings began. That
-would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro must be at home
-for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,-- no doing anything
-without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the
-midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as
-long as the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had
-remembered nothing except the Senorita's voice, while she was
-speaking to him. If he had had a hundred engagements for the
-summer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he was
-reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be confessed he was for
-a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was a time, when,
-as he well knew. his father could not do without his help. There
-were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly
-whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and
-encourage all sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's
-clear path of duty lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That
-was certain.
-
-"I will manage to be at home then," he said. "If I am not through
-here by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may
-depend on."
-
-The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in
-fact, but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando,
-the only old man in the band; all the rest were young men under
-thirty, or boys. Fernando had been captain for several years, but
-had himself begged, two years ago, that the band would elect
-Alessandro in his place. He was getting old, and he did not like to
-have to sit up and walk about the first half of every night, to see
-that the shearers were not gambling away all their money at cards;
-he preferred to roll himself up in his blanket at sunset and sleep till
-dawn the next morning. But just for these few remaining weeks he
-had no objection to taking the office again. And Alessandro was
-right, entirely right, in remaining; they ought all to see that,
-Fernando said; and his word had great weight with the men.
-
-The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good
-friend of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear,
-the Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very
-ungrateful now if they did not do all they could to help her in her
-need.
-
-The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies
-caught and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita
-were seen coming at full speed from the house.
-
-"Alessandro! Alessandro!" cried Ramona, out of breath, "I have
-only just now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am
-ashamed; but you know it would not have happened except for the
-sickness in the house. Everybody thought they were going away
-this morning. Now they must have a good supper before they go. It
-is already cooking. Tell them to wait."
-
-Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which
-Ramona spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a
-cordial outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were
-only too ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the
-Ortega sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only
-Alessandro hesitated.
-
-"It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's," he said to the men. "You'll
-be late in, if you do not start now."
-
-"Supper will be ready in an hour," said Ramona. "Please let them
-stay; one hour can't make any difference."
-
-Alessandro smiled. "It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they
-are off," he said; "but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to
-you, Senorita, for thinking of it."
-
-"Oh, I did not think of it myself," said Ramona. "It was Margarita,
-here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to
-have the shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry
-indeed," she added ruefully. "It must be dreadful to go a whole day
-without anything to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise,
-did they not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita," answered Alessandro, "but that is not long; one
-can do without food very well for one day. I often do."
-
-"Often." exclaimed Ramona; "but why should you do that?" Then
-suddenly bethinking herself, she said in her heart, "Oh, what a
-thoughtless question! Can it be they are so poor as that?" And to
-save Alessandro from replying, she set off on a run for the house,
-saying, "Come, come, Margarita, we must go and help at the
-supper."
-
-"Will the Senorita let me help, too," asked Alessandro, wondering
-at his own boldness,-- "if there is anything I can do?"
-
-"Oh, no," she cried, "there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help
-carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now,
-with Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor.
-You and some of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call
-you when we are ready."
-
-The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking,
-chatting, and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between
-the kitchen and the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling
-dishes, jingling spoons, frying, pouring water. Savory smells began
-to be wafted out. Evidently old Marda meant to atone for the
-shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also heard and
-smelled what was going on. "May the fiends get me," he growled,
-"if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast for those beasts
-of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers stewing, and
-potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for beggars that
-are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or a bowl of
-acorn porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they were well
-feasted at the Moreno's, -- that's one comfort. I wonder if
-Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but it
-smells well! Margarita! Margarita!" he called at top of his lungs;
-but Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the
-kitchen; and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the
-good broth which the doctor had said was the only sort of food he
-must eat for two weeks, she had dismissed him from her mind for
-the night. Moreover, Margarita was absent-minded to-night. She
-was more than half in love with the handsome Alessandro, who,
-when he had been on the ranch the year before, had danced with
-her, and said many a light pleasant word to her, evenings, as a
-young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed, when he
-saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, through
-which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor
-Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion,
-had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was
-going to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only
-Senor Felipe got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as
-Margarita flew about, here, there, and everywhere, she cast
-frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing up and down in
-the dusk outside.
-
-Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was
-looking off at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, "I will
-call you when we are ready." But she did not do as she said. She
-told Margarita to call.
-
-"Run, Margarita," she said. "All is ready now; see if Alessandro is
-in sight. Call him to come and take the things."
-
-So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called
-"Alessandro! Alessandro! the supper is ready."
-
-But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway,
-stood there holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew
-which had so roused poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona
-who said, as she gave it into Alessandro's hands, "Take care,
-Alessandro, it is very full. The gravy will run over if you are not
-careful. You are not used to waiting on table;" and as she said it,
-she smiled full into Alessandro's eyes,-- a little flitting, gentle,
-friendly smile, which went near to making him drop the platter,
-mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet.
-
-The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more
-than an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their
-horses to set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them
-aside. "Jose," he said, "whose horse is the faster, yours or
-Antonio's?"
-
-"Mine," promptly replied Jose. "Mine, by a great deal. I will run
-Antonio any day he likes."
-
-Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But
-Alessandro was learning a great many things in these days, among
-other things a little diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the
-swiftest to Temecula and back. He knew that Jose's pony could go
-like the wind. He also knew that there was a perpetual feud of
-rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of the fleetness of their
-respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for his messenger, he
-went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his horse to its
-utmost speed.
-
-Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, "Will you go? I will
-pay you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing."
-
-"I will go," said Jose, elated. "You will see me back tomorrow by
-sundown."
-
-"Not earlier?" asked Alessandro. "I thought by noon."
-
-"Well, by noon be it, then," said Jose. "The horse can do it."
-
-"Have great care!" said Alessandro.
-
-"That will I," replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp
-punch with his knees, set off at full gallop westward.
-
-"I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula," said Alessandro,
-walking up to Fernando. "He will be back here tomorrow noon,
-and join you at the Ortega's the next morning."
-
-"Back here by noon to-morrow!" exclaimed Fernando. "Not unless
-he kills his horse!"
-
-"That was what he said," replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
-
-"Easy enough, too!" cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare.
-"I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for
-her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?"
-
-"Is your horse really faster than Jose's?" said Alessandro. "Then I
-wish I had sent you. I'll send you next time."
-
-VII
-
-IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted
-into his place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and
-rough places became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand.
-Luckily, old Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great sense
-of relief at the news of his staying on. Not a wholly unselfish
-relief, perhaps, for since his accident Juan had not been without
-fears that he might lose his place altogether; there was a Mexican
-he knew, who had long been scheming to get the situation, and had
-once openly boasted at a fandango, where he was dancing with
-Anita, that as soon as that superannuated old fool, Juan Canito,
-was out of the way, he meant to be the Senora Moreno's head
-shepherd himself. To have seen this man in authority on the place,
-would have driven Juan out of his mind.
-
-But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,-- and of course the
-Senora would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so
-responsible a position on the estate,-- it was exactly as Juan would
-have wished; and he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the
-outset; kept him in his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of
-long-winded directions and explanations about things which, if
-only he had known it, Alessandro understood far better than he
-did.
-
-Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at
-San Luis Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he
-himself owned nearly as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but
-this Juan did not know. Neither did he realize that Alessandro, as
-Chief Pablo's son, had a position of his own not without dignity
-and authority. To Juan, an Indian was an Indian, and that was the
-end of it. The gentle courteousness of Alessandro's manner, his
-quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's mind to the score of the
-boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan had been told that
-the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully trained in all
-precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite usage, by the
-Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he would
-have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents were
-different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be
-entirely on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe
-knew, of which Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there
-were others in which Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and
-when it came to the things of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's
-plane was the higher of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded,
-honorable man, as men go; but circumstances and opportunity
-would have a hold on him they could never get on Alessandro.
-Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro was by nature
-full of veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had been
-trained into being a good Catholic. But they were both singularly
-pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled young men, and
-destined, by the strange chance which had thus brought them into
-familiar relations, to become strongly attached to each other. After
-the day on which the madness of Felipe's fever had been so
-miraculously soothed and controlled by Alessandro's singing, he
-was never again wildly delirious. When he waked in the night from
-that first long sleep, he was, as Father Salvierderra had predicted,
-in his right mind; knew every one, and asked rational questions.
-But the over-heated and excited brain did not for some time wholly
-resume normal action. At intervals he wandered, especially when
-just arousing from sleep; and, strangely enough, it was always for
-Alessandro that he called at these times, and it seemed always to
-be music that he craved. He recollected Alessandro's having sung
-to him that first night. "I was not so crazy as you all thought," he
-said. "I knew a great many of the things I said, but I couldn't help
-saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; and
-when he began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down
-and put her hand on my head and cooled it."
-
-On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left,
-Alessandro, seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the
-steps, and said, "Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play
-on the violin to him tonight?"
-
-"Why, whose violin have you got?" exclaimed Ramona,
-astonished.
-
-"My own, Senorita."
-
-"Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it."
-
-"Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is
-here."
-
-"Sent to Temecula and back already!" cried Ramona.
-
-"Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a
-hundred miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and
-he is at the Ortega's by this time."
-
-Ramona's eyes glistened. "I wish I could have thanked him," she
-said. "You should have let me know. He ought to have been paid
-for going."
-
-"I paid him, Senorita; he went for me," said Alessandro, with a
-shade of wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have
-perceived, but did not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still
-more.
-
-"But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora
-would rather pay the messenger herself."
-
-"It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to
-hear the violin, I will play;" and Alessandro walked slowly away.
-
-Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with
-no thought of his being an Indian,-- a thought there had surely been
-no need of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than
-Felipe's; but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that
-moment had she forgotten it.
-
-"What a superb head, and what a walk!" she thought. Then,
-looking more observantly, she said: "He walks as if he were
-offended. He did not like my offering to pay for the messenger. He
-wanted to do it for dear Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we will give
-him some present when he goes away."
-
-"Isn't he splendid, Senorita?" came in a light laughing tone from
-Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their
-relation. "Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how
-he dances! Last year I danced with him every night; he has wings
-on his feet, for all he is so tall and big."
-
-There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was
-suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to
-Ramona. Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone
-she had never before in her life used. "It is not fitting to speak like
-that about young men. The Senora would be displeased if she
-heard you," she said, and walked swiftly away leaving poor
-Margarita as astounded as if she had got a box on the ear.
-
-She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after
-Alessandro's. She had heard them talking together just before she
-came up. Thoroughly bewildered and puzzled, she stood
-motionless for several seconds, reflecting; then, shaking her head,
-she ran away, trying to dismiss the harsh speech from her mind.
-"Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita," she thought, "to make
-her speak like that to me." But the incident was not so easily
-dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the day it
-recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from
-solution as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream
-of; but it was dropped in soil where it would grow some day, --
-forcing-house soil, and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed,
-Ramona would have an enemy.
-
-All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own,
-Ramona proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the
-Senora sitting by his side, as she had sat for days and nights,-- her
-dark face looking thinner and more drawn each day; her hair
-looking even whiter, if that could be; and her voice growing
-hollow from faintness and sorrow.
-
-"Dear Senora," whispered Ramona, "do go out for a few moments
-while he sleeps, and let me watch,-- just on the walk in front of the
-veranda. The sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be
-ill if you do not have air."
-
-The Senora shook her head. "My place is here," she answered,
-speaking in a dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora
-Moreno; she wished neither to give it nor take it. "I shall not leave
-him. I do not need the air."
-
-Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves
-were now shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of
-golden tassels. It was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid
-it on the bed, near Felipe's head. "He will like to see it when he
-wakes," she said.
-
-The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. "Take it
-away! Flowers are poison when one is ill," she said coldly. "Have I
-never told you that?"
-
-"No, Senora," replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced
-involuntarily at the saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the
-table close to Felipe's pillow.
-
-"The musk is different," said the Senora, seeing the glance. "Musk
-is a medicine; it revives."
-
-Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe
-hated musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor;
-but his mother was so fond of it, that it must always be that the
-veranda and the house would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At
-times it made her faint, with a deadly faintness. But neither she nor
-Felipe would have confessed as much to the Senora; and if they
-had, she would have thought it all a fancy.
-
-"Shall I stay?" asked Ramona, gently.
-
-"As you please," replied the Senora. The simple presence of
-Ramona irked her now with a feeling she did not pretend to
-analyze, and would have been terrified at if she had. She would not
-have dared to say to herself, in plain words: "Why is that girl well
-and strong, and my Felipe lying here like to die! If Felipe dies, I
-cannot bear the sight of her. What is she, to be preserved of the
-saints!"
-
-But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona
-entered the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering
-to Felipe. If it had been possible, the Senora would have had no
-hands but her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona
-sometimes irritated her. "What does she know about loving Felipe!
-He is nothing to her!" thought the Senora, strangely mistaken,
-strangely blind, strangely forgetting how feeble is the tie of blood
-in the veins by the side of love in the heart.
-
-If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one
-second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona
-already occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have
-either died herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no
-such knowledge was possible; no such idea could have found
-entrance into the Senora's mind. A revelation from Heaven of it
-could hardly have reached even her ears. So impenetrable are the
-veils which, fortunately for us all, are forever held by viewless
-hands between us and the nearest and closest of our daily
-companions.
-
-At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He
-had dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing
-sleep.
-
-"Send for Alessandro," he said. "Let him come and sing to me."
-
-"He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,"
-said Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the
-messenger's having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and
-half a day, to bring it.
-
-"I wanted to pay the man," she said; "I knew of course your mother
-would wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended.
-He answered me shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing."
-
-"You couldn't have offended him more," said Felipe. "What a pity!
-He is as proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his
-father has always been the head of their band; in fact, he has
-authority over several bands; General, they call it now, since they
-got the title from the Americans; they used to call it Chief., and
-until Father Peyri left San Luis Rey, Pablo was in charge of all the
-sheep, and general steward and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted
-him with everything; I've heard he would leave boxes full of
-uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off the Indians. Pablo
-reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as many sheep as we
-have, I fancy!"
-
-"What!" exclaimed Ramona, astonished. "They all look as if they
-were poor."
-
-"Oh, well, so they are," replied Felipe, "compared with us; but one
-reason is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds
-and supports half his village, they say. So long as he has anything,
-he will never see one of his Indians hungry."
-
-"How generous!" warmly exclaimed Ramona; "I think they are
-better than we are, Felipe!"
-
-"I think so, too," said Felipe. "That's what I have always said. The
-Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they
-have learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when
-the Fathers first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day.
-He has read all Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and
-he says it is wonderful how the wild savages gave food to every
-one who came."
-
-"Felipe. you are talking too much," said the Senora's voice, in the
-doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If
-she had said in words, "See how unfit you are to be trusted with
-Felipe. No wonder I do not leave the room except when I must!"
-her meaning could not have been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly,
-and not without some misgiving that it was deserved.
-
-"Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?" she said timidly; and to the
-Senora, "Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few
-moments, very low."
-
-"Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?" said Felipe. "Tell him to
-bring his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays."
-
-A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen
-him a few minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now.
-Kitchens, sheepfolds, vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's
-bedchamber,-- Ramona searched them all in vain. At last, standing
-at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking down the garden, she
-thought she saw figures moving under the willows by the
-washing-stones.
-
-"Can he be there?" she said. "What can he be doing there? Who is
-it with him?" And she walked down the path, calling, "Alessandro!
-Alessandro!"
-
-At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his
-companion, and almost before the second syllables had been said,
-was standing face to face with Ramona.
-
-"Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my
-violin here. I thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him
-in the twilight."
-
-"Yes," replied Ramona, "he wishes to hear you. I have been
-looking everywhere for you." As she spoke, she was half
-unconsciously peering beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it
-was, slowly moving by the brook.
-
-Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was
-concerned. "It is Margarita," he said instantly. "Does the Senorita
-want her? Shall I run and call her?"
-
-"No," said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in
-fact knew she was displeased; "no, I was not looking for her. What
-is she doing there?"
-
-"She is washing," replied Alessandro, innocently.
-
-"Washing at this time of day!" thought Ramona, severely. "A mere
-pretext. I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow
-this sort of thing." And as she walked back to the house by
-Alessandro's side, she meditated whether or no she would herself
-speak to Margarita on the subject in the morning.
-
-Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of
-reflections not the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and
-down in the water, she said to herself, "I may as well finish them
-now I am here. How provoking! I've no more than got a word with
-him, than she must come, calling him away. And he flies as if he
-was shot on an arrow, at the first word. I'd like to know what's
-come over the man, to be so different. If I could ever get a good
-half-hour with him alone, I'd soon find out. Oh, but his eyes go
-through me, through and through me! I know he's an Indian, but
-what do I care for that. He's a million times handsomer than Senor
-Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he'd make enough better
-head shepherd than old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only see it; and
-why shouldn't he get to see it, if Alessandro's here all summer?"
-And before the aprons were done, Margarita had a fine air-castle
-up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice little house, children
-playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself still
-working for the Senora. "And the Senorita will perhaps marry
-Senor Felipe," she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly.
-"He worships the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a
-blind eye can see that; but maybe the Senora would not let him.
-Anyhow, Senor Felipe is sure to have a wife, and so and so." It was
-an innocent, girlish castle, built of sweet and natural longings, for
-which no maiden, high or low, need blush; but its foundations
-were laid in sand, on which would presently beat such winds and
-floods as poor little Margarita never dreamed of.
-
-The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's
-business with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made
-up her mind that before night she would, by fair means or foul,
-have a good long talk with Alessandro. "He was fond enough of
-me last year, I know," she said to herself, recalling some of the
-dances and the good-night leave-takings at that time. "It's because
-he is so put upon by everybody now. What with Juan Can in one
-bed sending for him to prate to him about the sheep, and Senor
-Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to sleep, and all the
-care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his mind altogether.
-But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's sun sets. If I
-can once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after that; I know
-the way it is with men!" said the confident Margarita, who, truth
-being told, it must be admitted, did indeed know a great deal about
-the way it is with men, and could be safely backed, in a fair field,
-with a fair start, against any girl of her age and station in the
-country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day
-destined to be an eventful one in her life.
-
-Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some
-reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about
-Margarita's having been under the willows with Alessandro in the
-previous evening, but would watch her carefully and see whether
-there were any farther signs of her attempting to have clandestine
-interviews with him.
-
-This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her
-affection for Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the
-Senora's displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear.
-She was also aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light
-which would reflect ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the
-Senora's estimation. "And he is not really to blame," thought
-Ramona, "if a girl follows him about and makes free with him. She
-must have seen him at the willows, and gone down there on
-purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For she
-never in this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he
-must have known, if he were not a fool. He is not the sort of
-person, it seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as full
-of grave thought as Father Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in
-Margarita to-day, I shall speak to her myself, kindly but firmly,
-and tell her to conduct herself more discreetly."
-
-Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being
-concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key,
-and grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking
-some of the phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth.
-
-"I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has," she said. "I wonder any
-girl should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his
-eyes on me, feel a constraint. There is something in them like the
-eyes of a saint, so solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good.
-
-And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that
-day a demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human
-affairs, things could not have fallen out better for his purpose than
-they did; for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when
-Ramona, sitting at her embroidery in the veranda, half hid behind
-the vines, saw Alessandro going with his pruning-knife in his hand
-towards the artichoke-patch at the east of the garden, and joining
-the almond orchard. "I wonder what he is going to do there," she
-thought. "He can't be going to cut willows;" and her eyes followed
-him till he disappeared among the trees.
-
-Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking
-from the east window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same
-thing. "Now's my chance!" she said; and throwing a white reboso
-coquettishly over her head, she slipped around the corner of the
-house. She ran swiftly in the direction in which Alessandro had
-gone. The sound of her steps reached Ramona, who, lifting her
-eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance. There was no possible
-duty, no possible message, which would take Margarita there.
-Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate indignation. But
-she bethought herself, "Ah, the Senora may have sent her to call
-Alessandro!" She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, and
-looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, with
-her eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes,
-and looked inquiringly at Ramona.
-
-"Do you know where Margarita is?" said Ramona.
-
-"In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping
-Marda," replied the Senora, in a whisper. "I told her to help Marda
-with the peppers this morning."
-
-Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide
-on her course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father
-Salvierderra's room, looked in. The room was still in disorder.
-Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The color deepened
-on Ramona's cheeks. It was strange how accurately she divined
-each process of the incident. "She saw him from this window,"
-said Ramona, "and has run after him. It is shameful. I will go and
-call her back, and let her see that I saw it all. It is high time that
-this was stopped."
-
-But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in
-her chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her.
-
-"I will wait here till she comes back," she said, and took up her
-embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly
-by, she sat with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first
-Alessandro and then Margarita had disappeared. At last she could
-bear it no longer. It seemed to her already a very long time. It was
-not in reality very long,-- a half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long
-enough for Margarita to have made great headway, as she thought,
-in her talk with Alessandro, and for things to have reached just the
-worst possible crisis at which they could have been surprised,
-when Ramona suddenly appeared at the orchard gate, saying in a
-stern tone, "Margarita, you are wanted in the house!" At a bad
-crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture which
-Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro,
-standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging
-listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the
-hand of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face,
-with a half-saucy, half-loving expression. What made bad matters
-worse, was, that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro snatched
-his hand from Margarita's, and tried to draw farther off from her,
-looking at her with an expression which, even in her anger,
-Ramona could not help seeing was one of disgust and repulsion.
-And if Ramona saw it, how much more did Margarita! Saw it, as
-only a woman repulsed in presence of another woman can see and
-feel. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye; the
-telling it takes double, treble the time of the happening. Before
-Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ramona and
-Margarita were disappearing from view under the garden trellis,--
-Ramona walking in advance, stately, silent, and Margarita
-following, sulky, abject in her gait, but with a raging whirlwind in
-her heart.
-
-It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita
-the truth. Alessandro too.
-
-"My God." he said, "the Senorita thought me making love to that
-girl. May the fiends get her!The Senorita looked at me as if I were
-a dog. How could she think a man would look at a woman after he
-had once seen her! And I can never, never speak to her to tell her!
-Oh, this cannot be borne!" And in his rage Alessandro threw his
-pruning-knife whirling through the air so fiercely, it sank to the
-hilt in one of the old olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was
-minded to flee the place. How could he ever look the Senorita in
-the face again!
-
-"Perdition take that girl!" he said over and over in his helpless
-despair. An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not
-deserved it.
-
-In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had
-seen Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming
-no special harm, except a little confusion at being seen thus
-standing with him,-- for she would tell the Senorita all about it
-when matters had gone a little farther, -- had not let go of
-Alessandro's hand. But the next second she had seen in his face a
-look; oh, she would never forget it, never! That she should live to
-have had any man look at her like that! At the first glimpse of the
-Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed rushing into his face,
-and he had snatched his hand away,-- for it was Margarita herself
-that had taken his hand, not he hers,-- had snatched his hand away,
-and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All this might
-have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's seeing
-them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal
-better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten,
-appealing, worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes
-rested on Ramona, was like a flash of light into Margarita's
-consciousness. Far better than Alessandro himself, she now knew
-his secret. In her first rage she did not realize either the gulf
-between herself and Ramona, or that between Ramona and
-Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had all been
-equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was
-embodied insolence in the tone in which she said presently, "Did
-the Senorita want me?"
-
-Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona
-said: "I saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you
-went for. I knew that you were at the brook last night with
-Alessandro. All I wanted of you was, to tell you that if I see
-anything more of this sort, I shall speak to the Senora."
-
-"There is no harm," muttered Margarita, sullenly. "I don't know
-what the Senorita means."
-
-"You know very well, Margarita," retorted Ramona. "You know
-that the Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what
-you do." And with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the
-veranda and her embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty
-of making the good Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and
-unhappy; and Margarita's would have been still hotter and
-unhappier, had she heard the words which were being spoken on
-the veranda a little later.
-
-After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and
-fate generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously
-persuaded himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's
-servant, for the time being, he owed it to them to explain the
-situation in which he had just been found. Just what he was to say
-he did not know; but no sooner had the thought struck him, than he
-set off at full speed for the house, hoping to find Ramona on the
-veranda, where he knew she spent all her time when not with
-Senor Felipe.
-
-When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was
-absorbed in her embroidery. She did not wish to look at him.
-
-The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She
-would not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away.
-She did not know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a
-time, finding the consciousness of the soundless presence
-intolerable, she looked up, and surprised on Alessandro's face a
-gaze which had, in its long interval of freedom from observation,
-been slowly gathering up into it all the passion of the man's soul,
-as a burning-glass draws the fire of the sun's rays. Involuntarily a
-low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she sprang to her feet.
-
-"Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here
-a long time to speak to her. I wished to say --"
-
-Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he
-wished to say.
-
-As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to
-say. But she spoke not, only looked at him searchingly.
-
-"Senorita," he began again, "I would never be unfaithful to my
-duty to the Senora, and to you."
-
-"I believe you, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It is not necessary to
-say more."
-
-At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had
-not hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona
-understood him. He felt, for the first time, a personal relation
-between himself and her.
-
-"It is well," he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people.
-"It is well." And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked
-away. Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father
-Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to
-discover to whom he was speaking, caught these last, words.
-Peering from behind a curtain, she saw the look with which he said
-them; saw also the expression on Ramona's face as she listened.
-
-Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona
-had an enemy.
-
-"Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!" said the girl,
-bitterly. "He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I
-haven't got to confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in
-that time."
-
-Much, indeed!
-
-VIII
-
-FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father
-Salvierderra had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day
-he lay with little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great
-that it was almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have
-been. Nearly every day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to
-him. It seemed to be the only thing that roused him from his half
-lethargic state. Sometimes he would talk with Alessandro on
-matters relative to the estate, and show for a few moments
-something like his old animation; but he was soon tired, and would
-close his eyes, saying: "I will speak with you again about this,
-Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing."
-
-The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence,
-soon came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover,
-she greatly liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road
-to the Senora's favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of
-speech and reserved in demeanor. She had an instinct of kinship to
-all that was silent, self-contained, mysterious, in human nature.
-The more she observed Alessandro, the more she trusted and
-approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how matters
-were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he would have been
-in a fever of apprehension, and would have got at swords' points
-with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all unaware of the
-real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the Mexican he
-dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear,
-asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise
-Alessandro to the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had
-not something to say in favor of the lad, as he called him.
-
-"Truly, Senora," he said again and again, "I do marvel where the
-lad got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at
-the sheep business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,-- a
-deal more; and it is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too,
-in the handling of cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more
-than once, already, for a remedy of which he knew not. And such
-modesty, withal. I knew not that there were such Indians; surely
-there cannot be many such."
-
-"No, I fancy not," the Senora would reply, absently. "His father is a
-man of intelligence, and has trained his son well."
-
-"There is nothing he is not ready to do," continued Alessandro's
-eulogist. "He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to
-a carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a
-relief like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He
-is a good lad,-- a good lad."
-
-None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora.
-More and more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing
-which Juan had feared, and which he had thought to avert by
-having Alessandro his temporary substitute, was slowly coming to
-pass. The idea was working in the Senora's mind, that she might do
-a worse thing than engage this young, strong, active, willing man
-to remain permanently in her employ. The possibility of an Indian's
-being so born and placed that he would hesitate about becoming
-permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, did not occur to
-her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty
-of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the young
-man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of
-the idea, and propose it.
-
-So one day she said to Felipe: "What a voice that Alessandro has,
-Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we
-not?"
-
-"He's not going!" exclaimed Felipe, startled.
-
-"Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was
-about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or
-eight, I suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have
-been lying here ill, my son."
-
-"True, true!" said Felipe. "Is it really a month already?" and he
-sighed.
-
-"Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for
-one of his years," continued the Senora. "He says he is as skilled
-with cattle as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have
-on the place. He seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I
-never saw an Indian who had such behavior."
-
-"Old Pablo is just like him," said Felipe. "It was natural enough,
-living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too,
-with a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in
-them."
-
-"I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time
-you will be well and strong," said the Senora; "you would not miss
-him then, would you?"
-
-"Yes, I would, too!" said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak
-enough to be childish. "I like him about me. He's worth a dozen
-times as much as any man we've got. But I don't suppose money
-could hire him to stay on any ranch."
-
-"Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?" asked the Senora,
-in a surprised tone. "I don't doubt you could do so if you wished.
-They are all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers
-if he were not poor."
-
-"Oh, it isn't that," said Felipe, impatiently. "You can't understand,
-because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud
-as we are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They
-shear sheep for money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so
-much difference. Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all
-the men in the village obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men
-here obey me. Faith, much more so!" added Felipe, laughing. "You
-can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I am not at all sure I could
-offer Alessandro Assis money enough to tempt him to stay here as
-my servant."
-
-The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. "No, I do not understand it,"
-she said. "Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that
-these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,-- naked
-savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they
-themselves too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and
-civilize them. The race was never meant for anything but servants.
-That was all the Fathers ever expected to make of them,-- good,
-faithful Catholics, and contented laborers in the fields. Of course
-there are always exceptional instances, and I think, myself,
-Alessandro is one. I don't believe, however, he is so exceptional,
-but that if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wages you
-pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of staying on the
-place."
-
-"Well, I shall think about it," said Felipe. "I'd like nothing better
-than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think
-about it."
-
-Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.
-
-Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going
-on. Hearing Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window,
-looking out, but listening intently. The month had done much for
-Alessandro with Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona
-knew it. It had done this much,-- that Ramona knew always when
-Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and that she had ceased
-to think of him as an Indian any more than when she thought of
-Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the two
-men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita
-had done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man
-of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not
-help it.
-
-"I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro," she said to
-herself many a time. "I do not see why he could not have been. I
-wonder if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is."
-
-When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro
-Assis money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona
-opened her lips suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind,
-and remained silent. She had sometimes displeased the Senora by
-taking part in conversations between her and her son.
-
-Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after
-his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she
-was on the point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he
-said, "What was it, Ramona, you were going to say just now?"
-
-Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it,
-
-"Tell me, Ramona," persisted Felipe. "You were going to say
-something about Alessandro's staying; I know you were."
-
-Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found
-herself embarrassed before Felipe.
-
-"Don't you like Alessandro?" said Felipe.
-
-"Oh, yes!" replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. "It was not that
-at all. I like him very much;" But then she stopped.
-
-"Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place
-about his staying?"
-
-"Oh, no, no; not a word!" said Ramona. "Everybody understands
-that he is here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did
-not believe you could offer him money enough to tempt him to
-stay."
-
-"Well," said Felipe, inquiringly, "I do not. Do you?"
-
-"I think he would like to stay," said Ramona, hesitatingly. "That
-was what I was going to say."
-
-"What makes you think so?" asked Felipe.
-
-"I don't know," Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she
-had said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy
-like this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not
-characteristic of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from
-being suspicion or jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went
-through Felipe's mind,-- went through so swiftly that he was scarce
-conscious of it; if he had been, he would have scorned himself.
-Jealous of an Indian sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the
-flitting something left a trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting
-the trivial incident; and after this, it was certain that Felipe would
-observe Ramona more closely than he had done; would weigh her
-words and actions; and if she should seem by a shade altered in
-either, would watch still more closely. Meshes were closing
-around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and act,--
-Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love
-and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had,
-matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was
-clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives,
-never long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers
-were not in focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was
-curiously outside of the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all
-external needs, in so far as her means allowed, the Senora would,
-without fail, provide for the child her sister had left in her hands as
-a trust; but a personal relation with her, a mother's affection, or
-even interest and acquaintance, no. The Senora had not that to
-give. And if she had it not, was she to blame? What could she do?
-Years ago Father Salvierderra had left off remonstrating with her
-on this point. "Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see
-aught lacking, aught amiss?" the Senora would ask,
-conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus inquired of,
-could not point out a duty which had been neglected.
-
-"You do not love her, my daughter," he said.
-
-"No." Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order.
-"No, I do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will."
-
-"That is true," the Father would say sadly; "but affection may be
-cultivated."
-
-"Yes, if it exists," was the Senora's constant answer. "But in this
-case it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your
-command, and to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never
-fail in my duty to her."
-
-It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, "Be cast into the
-sea," as try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did
-not of itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love
-Ramona the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and
-more each year, and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter
-maiden never drew breath than this same Ramona, who had been
-all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in the Senora Moreno's
-house.
-
-Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and
-that fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But
-how should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except
-for her two years at school with the nuns, she had never been away
-from the Senora's house. Felipe was the only young man she had
-known,-- Felipe, her brother since she was five years old.
-
-There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when
-he needed them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get
-them; went as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many
-times she had longed to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or
-Los Angeles; but to have asked the Senora's permission to
-accompany her on some of her now infrequent journeys to these
-places would have required more courage than Ramona possessed.
-It was now three years since she left the convent school, but she
-was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the day when,
-with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few
-romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most
-innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike
-than before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy
-temperament, had kept her singularly contented in her monotonous
-life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the
-chapel in order, helped in light household work, embroidered,
-sung, and, as the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said
-her prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra.
-
-By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been
-kept strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,-- he by
-living in the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and
-thoughts filled with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid
-routine of light and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a
-child.
-
-As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro
-meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to
-sing or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it
-made him uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two
-windows, and the door was never shut; yet the air seemed to
-Alessandro stifling.
-
-"I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room,
-and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man
-down," said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. "Do you think I
-should anger them if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out
-to the veranda and put him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my
-head I'd put him on his feet in a week."
-
-"And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the
-estate, and get it, lad," replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood
-darkening in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add,
-"Do not be so hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any
-reward for doing it; I was only thinking what joy it would be to the
-Senora to see Senor Felipe on his feet again. It has often crossed
-my thoughts that if he did not get up from this sickness the Senora
-would not be long behind him. It is but for him that she lives. And
-who would have the estate in that case, I have never been able to
-find out."
-
-"Would it not be the Senorita?" asked Alessandro.
-
-Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. "Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you
-say that!" he said. "Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more
-than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark
-ye, Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the
-Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation
-of theirs."
-
-"Yes," said Alessandro; "Margarita has said to me that the Senorita
-Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno."
-
-"Foster-child!" repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, "there is
-something to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when
-I was in Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get
-speech of any of their people. But this much I know, that it was the
-Senora Ortegna that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a
-scandalous tale about her birth."
-
-If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would
-have seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him
-choose his words more carefully. But he went on: "It was after the
-Senora Ortegna was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this
-child with her; and I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora
-look at her many a time as if she wished her dead. And it is a
-shame, for she was always as fair and good a child as the saints
-ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood, lad, is a
-bitter thing in a house. This much I know, her mother was an
-Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big Saint Joseph
-there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking to
-Father Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one
-blood in her veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses
-with Indians.'"
-
-If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word "Indian"
-have bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible
-stiller than before, and said in a low voice, "How know you it was
-the mother that was the Indian?"
-
-Juan laughed again, maliciously: "Ha, it is the Ortegna face she
-has; and that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the
-whole coast. There was not a decent woman would have spoken to
-him, except for his wife's sake."
-
-"But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping
-that the child was?" asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster
-each moment now; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his
-gossip, that he noticed nothing.
-
-"Ay, ay. So I said," he went on; "and so it was. There be such
-saints, you know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded
-to give shelter to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken
-lease of a church to hold them. But there was a story about a man's
-coming with this infant and leaving it in the Senora's room; and
-she, poor lady, never having had a child of her own, did warm to it
-at first sight, and kept it with her to the last; and I wager me, a
-hard time she had to get our Senora to take the child when she
-died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I think our Senora would
-as soon the child had been dead."
-
-"Has she not treated her kindly?" asked Alessandro, in a husky
-voice.
-
-Juan Can's pride resented this question. "Do you suppose the
-Senora Moreno would do an unkindness to one under her roof?" he
-asked loftily. "The Senorita has been always, in all things, like
-Senor Felipe himself. It was so that she promised the Senora
-Ortegna, I have heard."
-
-"Does the Senorita know all this?" asked Alessandro.
-
-Juan Can crossed himself. "Saints save us, no!" he exclaimed. "I'll
-not forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her
-hearing, when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she
-went to the Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had
-said her mother was no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder.
-And the Senora came to me, and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have
-been a long time in our house; but if ever I hear of your
-mentioning aught concerning the Senorita Ramona, on this estate
-or anywhere else in the country, that day you leave my service!' --
-And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it, Alessandro, now?"
-said the old man, anxiously. "My tongue runs away with me, lying
-here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,-- an active man like
-me."
-
-"No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured," said Alessandro,
-walking away slowly.
-
-"Here! Here!" called Juan. "What about that plan you had for
-making a bed for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide
-you meant?"
-
-"Ah, I had forgotten," said Alessandro, returning. "Yes, that was it.
-There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says
-that it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the
-Mission days. I myself like the ground even better; but my father
-sleeps always on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you
-think I might speak of it to the Senora?"
-
-"Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself," said Juan. "It will be as he
-says. He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but
-yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed
-to the wall, Alessandro."
-
-"Nay, Juan Canito," replied Alessandro, kindly. "It is not so. My
-father is many years older than you are, and he rules our people
-to-day as firmly as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still."
-
-"What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?" thought
-Juan; but he answered, "It is not so with us. The old are not held in
-such reverence."
-
-"That is not well," replied Alessandro. "We have been taught
-differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many
-years older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the
-building of the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many years
-ago. He is long past a hundred years of age. He is blind and
-childish, and cannot walk; but he is cared for by every one. And
-we bring him in our arms to every council, and set him by my
-father's side. He talks very foolishly sometimes, but my father will
-not let him be interrupted. He says it brings bad luck to affront the
-aged. We will presently be aged ourselves."
-
-"Ay, ay!" said Juan, sadly. "We must all come to it. It is beginning
-to look not so far off to me!"
-
-Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious
-revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had
-been at his. "Faith, old man, what name dost give to yourself
-to-day!" he thought; but went on with the topic of the raw-hide
-bed. "I may not so soon get speech with Senor Felipe," he said. "It
-is usually when he is sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But
-it makes my heart heavy to see him thus languishing day by day,
-and all for lack of the air and the sun, I do believe, indeed, Juan."
-
-"Ask the Senorita, then," said Juan. "She has his ear at all times."
-
-Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please
-him,-- this suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for
-Felipe's welfare? He could not have told; but he did not wish to
-speak of it to her.
-
-"I will speak to the Senora," he said; and as luck would have it, at
-that moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after
-Juan Can's health.
-
-The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She
-herself had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on
-them. "Yes," she said, "they are good. We will try it. It was only
-yesterday that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on;
-and when he was well, he thought nothing could be so good; he
-brought it here, at a great price, for me, but I could not lie on it. It
-seemed as if it would throw me off as soon as I lay down; it is a
-cheating device, like all these innovations the Americans have
-brought into the country. But Senor Felipe till now thought it a
-luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is throwing him all the
-time."
-
-Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. "I once
-lay down on one myself, Senora," he said, "and that was what I
-said to my father. It was like a wild horse under me, making
-himself ready to buck. I thought perhaps the invention was of the
-saints, that men should not sleep too long."
-
-"There is a pile of raw-hides," said Juan, "well cured, but not too
-stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of
-those will be just right. It must not be too dry."
-
-"The fresher the better," said Alessandro, "so it have no dampness.
-Shall I make the bed, Senora?" he asked, "and will the Senora
-permit that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if
-he thought I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor
-Felipe into the outer air. With us, it is thought death to be shut up
-in walls, as he has been so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we
-go into the dark like that."
-
-The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in
-favor of fresh air.
-
-"Night and day both?" she said. "Surely it is not well to sleep out in
-the night?"
-
-"That is the best of all, Senora," replied Alessandro, earnestly. "I
-beg the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly
-after the first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar."
-
-"No, only mistaken," said the Senora, gently. She felt herself
-greatly drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of
-Felipe. "When I die and leave Felipe here," she had more than once
-said to herself, "it would be a great good to him to have such a
-servant as this on the place."
-
-"Very well, Alessandro," she replied; "make the bed, and we will
-try it at once."
-
-This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west,
-when Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery,
-saw Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the
-raw-hide bed.
-
-"What can that be?" she said. "Some new invention of
-Alessandro's, but for what?"
-
-"A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita," said Alessandro, running
-lightly up the steps. "The Senora has given permission to place it
-here on the veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night;
-and it will be a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is
-the close room which is keeping him weak now; he has no illness."
-
-"I believe that is the truth, Alessandro," exclaimed Ramona; "I
-have been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in
-that room but an hour, and when I come here I am well. But the
-nights too, Alessandro? Is it not harmful to sleep out in the night
-air?"
-
-"Why, Senorita?" asked Alessandro, simply.
-
-And Ramona had no answer, except, "I do not know; I have always
-heard so."
-
-"My people do not think so," replied Alessandro; "unless it is cold,
-we like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the
-night."
-
-"I should think it would be," cried Ramona. "I never thought of it. I
-should like to do it."
-
-Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the
-bedstead in a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been
-lifted, Ramona would have seen a look on it that would have
-startled her more than the one she had surprised a few days
-previous, after the incident with Margarita. All day there had been
-coming and going in Alessandro's brain a confused procession of
-thoughts., vague yet intense. Put in words, they would have been
-found to be little more than ringing changes on this idea: "The
-Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Senorita
-Ramona is alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian
-blood!" These, or something like them, would have been the
-words; but Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked
-away on the rough posts for Senor Felipe's bedstead, hammered,
-fitted, stretched the raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving
-every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of exultant
-strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven
-and a new earth.
-
-Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager
-tone, "It must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it," these
-vague confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense
-of exultant strength, combined in a quick vision before
-Alessandro's eyes,-- a vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and
-himself together, looking up to them. But when he raised his head,
-all he. said was, "There, Senorita! That is all firm, now. If Senor
-Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, he will sleep as he has not
-slept since he fell ill."
-
-Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, "The bed is all ready on
-the veranda," she exclaimed. "Shall Alessandro come in and carry
-you out?"
-
-Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that
-expression of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the
-girl's sensitive nature far worse than anger. "I had not spoken to
-Felipe yet of the change, Ramona," she said. "I supposed that
-Alessandro would have informed me when the bed was ready; I am
-sorry you came in so suddenly. Felipe is still very weak, you see."
-
-"What is it? What is it?" exclaimed Felipe, impatiently.
-
-As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste
-to be moved.
-
-"That's just what I needed!" he exclaimed. "This cursed bed racks
-every bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than
-ever a thirsty man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro," he
-went on, seeing Alessandro in the doorway. "Come here, and take
-me up in those long arms of yours, and carry me quick. Already I
-feel myself better."
-
-Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a
-light burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong
-than Alessandro to lift.
-
-Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and
-blankets. As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora
-took them from her hands, saying, "I will arrange them myself;"
-and waved Ramona away.
-
-It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it
-would have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's
-nerves were not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to
-keep back her tears at the first rebuff. This second was too much.
-She turned, and walked swiftly away, the tears rolling down her
-cheeks.
-
-Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it.
-
-To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew
-but too well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought
-now, in his weakness, was, "Alas! what a pity my mother does not
-love Ramona!"
-
-To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As
-he stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe
-looked up, half afraid.
-
-"Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?" he said smiling.
-
-"It is not your weight, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, off
-guard, still trembling, his eyes following Ramona.
-
-Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met.
-Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at
-Alessandro.
-
-"Ah!" he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head
-sink back into the pillow.
-
-"Is that comfortable? Is that right?" asked the Senora, who had
-seen nothing.
-
-"The first comfortable moment I have had, mother," said Felipe.
-"Stay, Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested.
-This move has shaken me up a good deal. Wait."
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the
-veranda steps.
-
-"If you are to stay, Alessandro," said the Senora, "I will go and
-look after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at
-ease about Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I
-come back?"
-
-"Yes, Senora," said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own
-had been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora
-Moreno's servant. In fact, he was at that very moment revolving
-confusedly in his mind whether there could be any possibility of
-his getting away before the expiration of the time for which he had
-agreed to stay.
-
-It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro
-thought he was asleep.
-
-At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for
-some minutes. "Alessandro," he said.
-
-Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside.
-He did not know what the next word might be. He felt that the
-Senor Felipe had seen straight into his heart in that one moment's
-look, and Alessandro was preparing for anything.
-
-"Alessandro," said Felipe, "my mother has been speaking to me
-about your remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very
-old, and after this accident will go on crutches the rest of his days,
-poor soul! We are in great need of some man who understands
-sheep, and the care of the place generally."
-
-As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing
-expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe
-misunderstood the surprise. "I knew you would be surprised," he
-said. "I told my mother that you would not think of it; that you had
-stayed now only because we were in trouble."
-
-Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from
-Felipe gave him pleasure.
-
-"Yes, Senor," he said, "that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was
-not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money
-we can earn. Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know
-whether my father would think I ought to take the place you offer
-me, or not, Senor. It would be as he said. I will ask him."
-
-"Then you would be willing to take it?" asked Felipe.
-
-"Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it," replied
-Alessandro, looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a
-second's pause, "if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it
-would be a pleasure to me to be of help to you."
-
-And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been
-turning over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora
-Moreno's service immediately. This change had not been a caprice,
-not been an impulse of passionate desire to remain near Ramona;
-it had come from a sudden consciousness that the Senor Felipe
-would be his friend. And Alessandro was not mistaken.
-
-IX
-
-WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe
-asleep, Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms
-crossed on his breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near,
-Alessandro felt again the same sense of dawning hatred which had
-seized him at her harsh speech to Ramona. He lowered his eyes,
-and waited to be dismissed.
-
-"You can go now, Alessandro," said the Senora. "I will sit here.
-You are quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here
-all night?"
-
-"It will cure him before many nights," replied Alessandro, still
-without raising his eyes, and turning to go.
-
-"Stay," said the Senora. Alessandro paused. "It will not do for him
-to be alone here in the night, Alessandro.'
-
-Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay
-on the veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under
-the Senorita's window.
-
-"No, Senora," he replied. "I will lie here by his side. That was what
-I had thought, if the Senora is willing."
-
-"Thank you, Alessandro," said the Senora, in a tone which would
-have surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with
-sad eyes. She did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to
-any one but Felipe. "Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed
-made for you."
-
-"Oh, no." cried Alessandro; "if the Senora will excuse me, I could
-not lie on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket,
-are all I want. I could not lie on any bed."
-
-"To be sure," thought the Senora; "what was I thinking of! How the
-boy makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than
-the ground, Alessandro," she said kindly.
-
-"No, Senora," he said, "it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep. I
-will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he
-should wake and need something."
-
-"I will watch him myself till midnight," said the Senora. "I should
-feel easier to see how he sleeps at first."
-
-It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living
-thing were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on
-the garden, and on the white front of the little chapel among the
-trees. Ramona, from her window, saw Alessandro pacing up and
-down the walk. She had seen him spread down the raw-hide by
-Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take her place in one of the
-big carved chairs. She wondered if they were both going to watch;
-she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit up and watch
-with Felipe.
-
-"I am not of any use to anybody," she thought sadly. She dared not
-go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night.
-At supper the Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and
-distant manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had
-not once seen Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who, in the
-former times, -- ah, how far away those former times looked now!
--- had been a greater comfort to Ramona than she realized,--
-Margarita now was sulky and silent, never came into Ramona's
-presence if she could help it, and looked at her sometimes with an
-expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to herself, "She
-hates me; She has always hated me since that morning."
-
-It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her
-window leaning her head against the sash, and looked at
-Alessandro pacing up and down, she felt for the first time, and did
-not shrink from it nor in any wise disavow or disguise it to herself,
-that she was glad he loved her. More than this she did not think;
-beyond this she did not go. Her mind was not like Margarita's, full
-of fancies bred of freedom in intercourse with men. But distinctly,
-tenderly glad that Alessandro loved her, and distinctly, tenderly
-aware how well he loved her, she was, as she sat at her window
-this night, looking out into the moonlit garden; after she had gone
-to bed, she could still hear his slow, regular steps on the
-garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was
-that she was glad Alessandro loved her.
-
-The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees,
-vines, were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona
-awoke, sat up in her bed, and listened. All was so still that the
-sound of Felipe's low, regular breathing came in through her open
-window. After hearkening to it for a few moments, she rose
-noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the window parted the
-curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; but it was not
-noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; without a
-sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's
-window.
-
-"I am here, Senorita," he whispered. "Do you want anything?"
-
-"Has he slept all night like this?" she whispered back.
-
-"Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved."
-
-"How good!" said Ramona. "How good!"
-
-Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to
-hear him speak again, but she could think of no more to say.
-Because she could not, she gave a little sigh.
-
-Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. "May the
-saints bless you, Senorita," he whispered fervently.
-
-"Thank you, Alessandro," murmured Ramona, and glided back to
-her bed, but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first
-faint light filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the
-Senora's window open.
-
-"Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe," thought
-Ramona; and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low
-words between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's
-window closed again, and all was still.
-
-"I thought she would not have the heart to wake him," said
-Ramona to herself. "The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our
-song, I am sure; but I will say a prayer to her instead;" and she
-sank on her knees at the head of her bed, and began saying a
-whispered prayer. The footfall of a spider in Ramona's room had
-not been light enough to escape the ear of that watching lover
-outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose from the floor, turning
-towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness was so far
-softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen.
-Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro
-was sure he had heard her voice.
-
-"Did the Senorita speak?" he whispered, his face close at the
-curtain. Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it
-fell on the wooden floor.
-
-"No, no, Alessandro," she said, "I did not speak." And she
-trembled, she knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor
-explained to Alessandro what had been the whispered words he
-heard.
-
-"She was at her prayers," he thought, ashamed and sorry. "Forgive
-me," he whispered, "I thought you called;" and he stepped back to
-the outer edge of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He
-would lie down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing
-at the window. Through the transparent muslin curtain the
-dawning light came slowly, steadily, till at last she could see
-Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful of all else, she knelt gazing at him.
-The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Ramona would not finish
-that prayer, that day. But her heart was full of thanksgiving and
-gratitude, and the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the
-book.
-
-The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made
-the veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes.
-The Senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him
-anxiously, but he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out,
-glancing at Alessandro only long enough to give him one quick
-smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding her breath, he lay so
-still.
-
-"Ought he to sleep so long?" she whispered.
-
-"Till the noon, it may be," answered Alessandro; "and when he
-wakes, you will see by his eye that he is another man."
-
-It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed
-outright with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at
-the steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard
-from him, "Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why couldn't
-that fool from Ventura have known as much? With all his learning,
-he had had me in the next world before many days, except for you.
-Now, Alessandro, breakfast! I'm hungry. I had forgotten what the
-thought of food was like to a hungry stomach. And plenty! plenty!"
-he called, as Alessandro ran toward the kitchen. "Bring all they
-have."
-
-When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye
-bright, his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old
-self, she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a
-moment; then turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, "May
-Heaven reward you!" and disappeared abruptly in her own room.
-When she came out, her eyes were red. All day she moved and
-spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed inconceivable. She even
-spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She felt like one
-brought back from the dead.
-
-After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on the
-veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The
-servants came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the
-garden-walk below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the
-stout crutches Alessandro had made him of manzanita wood,
-dragged himself all the way round the house, to have a look at
-Senor Felipe and a word with him. The Senora sat there, in the big
-carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her black silk banded
-head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her large dark
-eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona lived
-there too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on
-the floor in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so
-placed, however,-- if anybody had noticed, but nobody did, -- so
-placed that she could look at Felipe without looking full at the
-Senora's chair, even if the Senora were not in it.
-
-Here also came Alessandro many times a day,-- sometimes sent
-for, sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When
-he played or sang he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading
-down to the garden. He also had a secret, which he thought all his
-own, in regard to the positions he chose. He sat always, when
-Ramona was there, in the spot which best commanded a view of
-her face. The secret was not all his own. Felipe knew it. Nothing
-was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell exploding at their
-feet would not have more astonished the different members of this
-circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would to have been
-made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in
-Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly
-looking at them all.
-
-It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength
-when the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved
-Ramona, and that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have
-been instantly filled with jealous antagonism. But at the time when
-this revelation came, he was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times
-a day that he must soon die; it did not seem to Felipe that a man
-could be so weak as he was, and ever again be strong and well.
-Side by side with these forebodings of his own death, always came
-the thought of Ramona. What would become of her, if he were
-gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would be broken;
-that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe adored his
-mother; but he understood her feeling about Ramona.
-
-With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in
-long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had
-ceased to puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long,
-steady look into his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a
-sister she loved him, had always loved him, and could love him in
-no other way. He wondered a little at himself that this gave him no
-more pain; only a sort of sweet, mournful tenderness towards her.
-It must be because he was so soon going out of the world, he
-thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new quality was
-coming into his love for her. He himself was returning to the
-brother love which he had had for her when they were children
-together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a
-man and Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon
-Felipe when this was finally clear and settled in his mind. No
-doubt he had had more misgiving and fear about his mother in the
-matter than he had ever admitted to himself; perhaps also the
-consciousness of Ramona's unfortunate birth had rankled at times;
-but all this was past now. Ramona was his sister. He was her
-brother. What course should he pursue in the crisis which he saw
-drawing near? How could he best help Ramona? What would be
-best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought of any
-possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into
-Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's
-to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in
-forecasting, plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in
-his life he felt himself in the dark as to his mother's probable
-action. That any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or
-welfare would influence her, he knew better than to think for a
-moment. So far as that was concerned, Ramona might wander out
-the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar, and his mother would
-feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted daughter of the
-Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as
-foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit
-such a one to marry an Indian?
-
-Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The
-more he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon
-have to be decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan
-after plan for forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother; but
-Felipe was by nature indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble.
-Day after day slipped by. It was exceedingly pleasant on the
-veranda. Ramona was usually with him; his mother was gentler,
-less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was always at hand,
-ready for any service,-- in the field, in the house,-- his music a
-delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his personal presence
-always agreeable. "If only my mother could think it," reflected
-Felipe, "it would be the best thing, all round, to have Alessandro
-stay here as overseer of the place, and then they might be married.
-Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so."
-
-And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering
-over the valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed,
-the grapes filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick
-under the canopied vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the
-roses had all fallen; but there were lilies, and orange-blossoms,
-and poppies, and carnations, and geraniums in the pots, and
-musk,-- oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was like an enchanter's
-spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping relays of musk
-to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an enchanter's
-spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.' But the bees
-liked it, and the humming-birds,-- the butterflies also; and the air
-was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the
-season's noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the
-finches and the canaries too; and the Senora spent hours, every
-day, tirelessly feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and
-spread out to their thickest; no need any longer of the gay blanket
-Alessandro had pinned up that first morning to keep the sun off
-Felipe's head.
-
-What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a
-spot as this? "To-morrow," said Felipe, "I will speak to my
-mother," and "to-morrow," and "to-morrow;" but he did not.
-
-There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that
-Felipe knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came
-and went about her household tasks, she was always on the watch
-for Alessandro, on the watch for Ramona. She was biding her
-time. Just what shape her revenge was going to take, she did not
-know. It was no use plotting. It must be as it fell out; but that the
-hour and the way for her revenge would come she never doubted.
-
-When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all
-listening to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro
-himself now at his ease and free in the circle, as if he had been
-there always, her anger was almost beyond bounds.
-
-"Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!" she sneered. "It is
-new times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of
-the house, and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We
-shall see; we shall see what comes of all this!" And she knew not
-which she hated the more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona.
-
-Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never
-spoken to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible,
-seeing him. At first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be
-friendly with her. As soon as he felt assured that the incident had
-not hurt him at all in the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry
-for Margarita. "A man should not be rude to any maiden," he
-thought; and he hated to remember how he had pushed Margarita
-from him, and snatched his hand away, when he had in the outset
-made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's resentment was
-not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how little
-Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them.
-"Let him go to his Senorita," she said bitterly, mocking the
-reverential tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the
-word. "She is fond enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see
-it. She'll be ready to throw herself at his head before long, if this
-kind of thing keeps up. 'It is not well to speak thus freely of young
-men, Margarita!' Ha, ha! Little I thought that day which way the
-wind set in my mistress's temper! I'll wager she reproves me no
-more, under this roof or any other! Curse her! What did she want
-of Alessandro, except to turn his head, and then bid him go his
-way!"
-
-To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility
-of Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue
-of more or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on
-with any one of the shepherds,-- this was the utmost stretch of
-Margarita's angry imaginations in regard to her young mistress's
-liking for Alessandro. There was not, in her way of looking at
-things, any impossibility of such a thing as that. But marriage! It
-might be questioned whether that idea would have been any more
-startling to the Senora herself than to Margarita.
-
-Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which
-Margarita did not know. The girl was always like a sprite,-- here,
-there, everywhere, in an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother
-often told her, saw on all sides of her head. Now, fired by her new
-purpose, new passion, she moved swifter than ever, and saw and
-heard even more, There were few hours of any day when she did
-not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and Ramona were;
-and there had been few meetings between them which she had not
-either seen or surmised.
-
-In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not
-strange that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved
-untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought
-himself, from his vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and
-from his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most
-that happened, would have been astonished to hear all that
-Margarita could have told him. In the first days Ramona herself
-had guilelessly told him much,-- had told him how Alessandro,
-seeing her trying to sprinkle and bathe and keep alive the green
-ferns with which she had decorated the chapel for Father
-Salvierderra's coming, had said: "Oh, Senorita, they are dead! Do
-not take trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;" and the
-next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of
-such ferns as she had never before seen; tall ones, like
-ostrich-plumes, six and eight feet high; the feathery maidenhair,
-and the gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as she ever had
-found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a conservatory, after
-she had arranged them in vases and around the high candlesticks.
-
-It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch
-all of the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled
-down by the cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she
-did not think it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people,
-he said, made wreaths of them. And so they were, more beautiful
-than any paper flowers which ever were made,-- great soft round
-disks of fine straight threads like silk, with a kind of saint's halo
-around them of sharp, stiff points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely
-creamy color. It was the strangest thing in the world nobody had
-ever noticed them as they lay there on the ground. She had put a
-great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and a bunch in
-the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora saw them, she
-exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been made
-of silk and satin.
-
-And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the
-Indian women at Pala, and one which had come from the North,
-from the Tulare country; it had gay feathers woven in with the
-reeds,-- red and yellow, in alternate rows, round and round. It was
-like a basket made out of a bright-colored bird.
-
-And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy
-black, that came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of
-Alessandro's got it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if
-hardly a day passed that there was not some new token to be
-chronicled of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and good-will. Often,
-too, Ramona had much to tell that Alessandro had said,-- tales of
-the old Mission days that he had heard from his father; stories of
-saints, and of the early Fathers, who were more like saints than
-like men, Alessandro said,-- Father Junipero, who founded the first
-Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's grandfather
-had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a
-miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform.
-There was a cup out of which the Father always took his chocolate
-for breakfast,-- a beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the
-only luxury the Father had; and one morning it was broken, and
-everybody was in terror and despair. "Never mind, never mind,"
-said the Father; "I will make it whole;" and taking the two pieces
-in his hands, he held them tight together, and prayed over them,
-and they became one solid piece again, and it was used all through
-the journey, just as before.
-
-But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To
-Felipe's sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she
-made brief replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had
-observed another thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro.
-When he was speaking to others she kept her eyes on the ground. If
-he addressed her, she looked quickly up at him, but lowered her
-eyes after the first glance. Alessandro also observed this, and was
-glad of it. He understood it. He knew how differently she could
-look in his face in the rare moments when they were alone
-together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he was
-mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it.
-
-It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the
-willows by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time
-it happened, it was a chance; after that never a chance again, for
-Alessandro went often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In
-Ramona's mind too, not avowed, but half consciously, there was, if
-not the hope of seeing him there, at least the memory that it was
-there they had met. It was a pleasant spot,-- cool and shady even at
-noon, and the running water always full of music. Ramona often
-knelt there of a morning, washing out a bit of lace or a
-handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went hard with him
-to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him vividly
-of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face in the
-sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that he
-even now thought her less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to
-be human! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time,
-and, lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water, and
-played with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion,
-thoughts like these: "Whither have gone the drops that passed
-beneath her hands, just here? These drops will never find those in
-the sea; but I love this water!"
-
-Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the
-refined sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped
-blindly towards it, thinking to herself: "He hopes his Senorita will
-come down to him there. A nice place it is for a lady to meet her
-lover, at the washing-stones! It will take swifter water than any in
-that brook, Senorita Ramona, to wash you white in the Senora's
-eyes, if ever she come upon you there with the head shepherd,
-making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that could only happen,
-I'd die content!" And the more Margarita watched, the more she
-thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was oftener at
-the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro met;
-and, as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked
-each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times
-it had happened to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one
-eye on the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the Senora,
-hoping to be ordered to call the Senorita to supper.
-
-"If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did
-to me, 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul
-good! I'd say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces!
-It will come! It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one
-of these fine times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!"
-
-X
-
-IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than
-Margarita's most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had
-no hand in it. It was the Senora herself.
-
-Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his
-chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little,
-the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old
-habit of long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by
-her servants, that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that
-the Senora had not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had
-a special purpose in walking over it now. She was carefully
-examining to see whether she could afford to sell to the Ortegas a
-piece of pasture-land which they greatly desired to buy, as it joined
-a pasturage tract of theirs. This bit of land lay farther from the
-house than the Senora realized, and it had taken more time than
-she thought it would, to go over it; and it was already sunset on
-this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned off from the
-highway into the same shortcut path in which Father Salvierderra
-had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now in
-getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry, and
-had been trampled by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was
-dusky twilight when she reached the willows; so dusky that she
-saw nothing -- and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown
-path that she made no sound -- until suddenly, face to face with a
-man and a woman standing locked in each other's arms, she halted,
-stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same
-second, recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood
-apart, each gazing into her face with terror.
-
-Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for
-herself had stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a
-voice.
-
-"Senora," she began,
-
-"Silence! Shameful creature!" cried the Senora. "Do not dare to
-speak! Go to your room!"
-
-Ramona did not move.
-
-"As for you," the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, "you,"
--- she was about to say, "You are discharged from my service from
-this hour," but recollecting herself in time, said,-- "you will answer
-to Senor Felipe. Out of my sight!" And the Senora Moreno
-actually, for once in her life beside herself with rage, stamped her
-foot on the ground. "Out of my sight!" she repeated.
-
-Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an
-inquiring look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not
-wish. He had no idea what she would think it best to do in this
-terrible dilemma.
-
-"Go, Alessandro," said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora
-full in the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her
-lips, he had walked away.
-
-Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders
-than her own before stirring from the spot, were too much for
-Senora Moreno. A wrath, such as she had not felt since she was
-young, took possession of her. As Ramona opened her lips again,
-saying, "Senora," the Senora did a shameful deed; she struck the
-girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.
-
-"Speak not to me!" she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she
-pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk.
-
-"Senora, you hurt my arm," said Ramona, still in the same calm
-voice. "You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid."
-
-Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm,
-and stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see
-upon it an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of
-which no one would have thought it capable. "What does this
-mean?" thought the Senora, still weak, and trembling all over,
-from rage. "The hussy, the hypocrite!" and she seized the arm
-again.
-
-This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led
-like a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed
-violently and locked on the outside.
-
-All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that
-Ramona and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been
-consumed with impatience at the Senora's prolonged absence.
-More than once she had gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed
-interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the Senorita would not
-have their supper.
-
-"No, no, not till the Senora returns," Felipe had answered. He, too,
-happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were.
-He knew also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be
-late home; but he did not know that there would be any chance of
-her returning by way of the willows at the brook; if he had known
-it, he would have contrived to summon Ramona.
-
-When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale
-and trembling Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped
-into the Senora's pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and
-ran into the back porch. Almost a remorse seized her. She
-remembered in a flash how often Ramona had helped her in times
-gone by,-- sheltered her from the Senora's displeasure. She
-recollected the torn altar-cloth. "Holy Virgin! what will be done to
-her now?" she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita had never
-conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp
-reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro, -- this
-was all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But
-the Senora looked as if she might kill her.
-
-"She always did hate her, in her heart," reflected Margarita; "she
-shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that.
-But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have
-brought her to such a pass as this;" and Margarita's jealousy again
-got the better of her sympathy. "Good enough for her. No more
-than she deserved. An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would
-make a good husband for any girl!" Margarita's short-lived remorse
-was over. She was an enemy again.
-
-It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the
-Senora's view and interpretation of the situation. The Senora
-looking at it from above, and Margarita looking at it from below,
-each was sure, and they were both equally sure, that it could be
-nothing more nor less than a disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and
-maid were alike incapable either of conjecturing or of believing
-the truth.
-
-As ill luck would have it,-- or was it good luck? -- Felipe also had
-witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had
-looked out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his
-senses, had seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the
-arm,-- Ramona pale, but strangely placid; his mother with rage and
-fury in her white face. The sight told its own tale to Felipe.
-Smiting his forehead with his hand, he groaned out: "Fool that I
-was, to let her be surprised; she has come on them unawares; now
-she will never, never forgive it!" And Felipe threw himself on his
-bed, to think what should be done. Presently he heard his mother's
-voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained silent, sure she
-would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, seeing
-him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, "Felipe, dear,
-are you ill?" he replied in a feeble voice, "No, mother, only tired a
-little to-night;" and as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he
-threw his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. "Mother
-mia!" he said passionately, "what should I do without you?" The
-caress, the loving words, acted like oil on the troubled waters.
-They restored the Senora as nothing else could. What mattered
-anything, so long as she had her adoring and adorable son! And she
-would not speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this
-disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could wait till
-morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and he
-would not miss Ramona, perhaps.
-
-"I will send your supper here, Felipe," she said;. "you must not
-overdo; you have been walking too much. Lie still." And kissing
-him affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita,
-vainly trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing,
-ready to serve supper. When the Senora entered, with her
-countenance composed, and in her ordinary tones said, "Margarita,
-you can take Senor Felipe's supper into his room; he is lying down,
-and will not get up; he is tired," Margarita was ready to doubt if
-she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she, or had she not,
-within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, shaking and speechless
-with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her room, and lock her
-up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at
-the Senora, with her mouth wide open.
-
-"What are you staring at, girl?" asked the Senora, so sharply that
-Margarita jumped.
-
-"Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to
-supper? Shall I call her?" she said.
-
-The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The
-Senora Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under
-her roof, no matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no
-servant should treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was
-wrong.
-
-"The Senorita is not well," she said coldly. "She is in her room. I
-myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not
-disturb her." And the Senora returned to Felipe.
-
-Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she
-had spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before.
-In those two short hours how much had happened!
-
-"Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon," said
-the bitter Margarita, "and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to
-see how he will carry himself."
-
-But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the
-kitchen. The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past
-nine o'clock, and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and
-searched in some of the places where she knew he was in the habit
-of going; but Alessandro was not to be found. Once she brushed so
-near his hiding-place that he thought he was discovered, and was
-on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace, and she passed
-on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium clump at the chapel
-door; sitting on the ground, with his knees drawn up to his chin,
-watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night.
-He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, she would
-either open her window and call, or would come out and go down
-through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would
-see her from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his
-emotions; mad with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving
-the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She had said she
-would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but just
-passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared
-in their presence. As he lived the scene over again, he
-re-experienced the joy and the terror equally.
-
-What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she
-look at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she
-knew that the Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so
-dreadful a thing for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once
-enter into Alessandro's mind, that the Senora could have had any
-other thought, seeing them as she did, in each other's arms. And
-again what had he to give to Ramona? Could she live in a house
-such as he must live in,-- live as the Temecula women lived? No!
-for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some town, must
-do -- he knew not what -- something to earn more money. Anguish
-seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering
-deprivations. The more he thought of the future in this light, the
-more his joy faded and his fear grew. He had never had sufficient
-hope that she could be his, to look forward thus to the practical
-details of life; he had only gone on loving, and in a vague way
-dreaming and hoping; and now,-- now, in a moment, all had been
-changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had spoken, and
-such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had put
-his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed
-her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she
-had been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden
-kisses a man unless she will wed with him,-- him, Alessandro! Oh,
-no wonder the man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent
-darkness, wondering, afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him,
-in the very instant of their first kiss,-- wrenched from him, and he
-himself ordered, by one who had the right to order him, to begone!
-What could an Indian do against a Moreno!
-
-Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his
-friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild
-partridge's instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe
-move the Senora? Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of
-them?
-
-As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second
-the whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of
-Alessandro's love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of
-every word and act of Ramona's since he first knew her. He
-recollected the tone in which she had said, and the surprise with
-which he heard her say it, at the time of Felipe's fall, "You are
-Alessandro, are you not?" He heard again her soft-whispered
-prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. He recalled her
-tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner; the evident
-terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without food.
-"O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with
-me?" he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away
-from her forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a
-few hours ago, when he first told her he loved her; and his heart
-took courage. She had said, "I know you love me, Alessandro, and
-I am glad of it," and had lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that
-a woman's eyes can carry; and when he threw his arms around her,
-she had of her own accord come closer, and laid one hand on his
-shoulder, and turned her face to his. Ah, what else mattered! There
-was the whole world; if she loved him like this, nothing could
-make them wretched; his love would be enough for her,-- and for
-him hers was an empire.
-
-It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would
-have believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever
-spoken between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever
-given, the first moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers'
-first words, first caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no
-more premonition, at the instant, than there is of the instant of the
-opening of a flower. Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of
-the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard to remaining
-on the place, and asked her if she knew of the plan.
-
-"Yes," she said; "I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe,
-some days ago."
-
-"Was she against my staying?" asked Alessandro, quickly.
-
-"I think not," said Ramona, "but I am not sure. It is not easy to be
-sure what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that
-proposed it."
-
-This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of
-knowing the Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind.
-
-"I do not understand, Senorita," he said. "What do you mean by
-'afterward'?"
-
-"I mean," replied Ramona, "that the Senora never says she wishes
-anything; she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to
-Father Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes
-to have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you
-think so?"
-
-"She loves Senor Felipe very much," was Alessandro's evasive
-reply.
-
-"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ramona. "You do not begin to know how
-much. She does not love any other human being. He takes it all.
-She hasn't any left. If he had died, she would have died too. That is
-the reason she likes you so much; she thinks you saved Felipe's
-life. I mean, that is one reason," added Ramona, smiling, and
-looking up confidingly at Alessandro, who smiled back, not in
-vanity, but honest gratitude that the Senorita was pleased to
-intimate that he was not unworthy of the Senora's regard.
-
-"I do not think she likes me," he said. "I cannot tell why; but I do
-not think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I
-ever saw, Senorita."
-
-"No," replied Ramona, thoughtfully. "She is not. I am, oh, so afraid
-of her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little
-girl. I used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care
-one way or the other, if I keep out of her way."
-
-While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the
-running water at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the
-expression in Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was
-drawing near would have drawn near faster, would have arrived at
-that moment; but she did not look up. She went on, little dreaming
-how hard she was making it for Alessandro.
-
-"Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and
-looked at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself
-in, and be carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin,
-Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the
-next morning, when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been
-glad enough I had not done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that,
-Alessandro?"
-
-"No, Senorita, never," replied Alessandro; "and it is thought a great
-disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it.
-But, oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will
-you always be so? Must you always stay here?"
-
-"Oh, but I am not always unhappy!" said Ramona, with her sunny
-little laugh. "Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father
-Salvierderra says that if one does no sin, one will be always happy,
-and that it is a sin not to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun
-and the sky and the work there is to do; and there is always plenty
-of that." Then, her face clouding, she continued: "I suppose I shall
-always stay here. I have no other home; you know I was the
-Senora's sister's adopted child. She died when I was little, and the
-Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra says I must never
-forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for me, and I try not
-to."
-
-Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had
-told it to him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How
-he longed to cry out, "O my loved one, they have made you
-homeless in your home. They despise you. The blood of my race is
-in your veins; come to me; come to me! be surrounded with love!"
-But he dared not. How could he dare?
-
-Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue
-to-night. She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own
-personal history or burdens; but she went on: "The worst thing is,
-Alessandro, that she will not tell me who my mother was; and I do
-not know if she is alive or not, or anything about her. Once I asked
-the Senora, but she forbade me ever to ask her again. She said she
-herself would tell me when it was proper for me to know. But she
-never has."
-
-How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had
-never seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen
-if he were to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw
-her closer to him, or repel her?
-
-"Have you never asked her again?" he said.
-
-Ramona looked up astonished. "No one ever disobeyed the
-Senora," she said quickly.
-
-"I would!" exclaimed Alessandro.
-
-"You may think so," said Ramona, "but you couldn't. When you
-tried, you would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra
-once."
-
-"What did he say?" asked Alessandro, breathless.
-
-"The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough.
-When the time came, I would be told," answered Ramona, sadly. "I
-don't see what they can mean by the time's coming. What do you
-suppose they meant?"
-
-"I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita,"
-replied Alessandro. "Many things that your people do, and still
-more that these Americans do, are to me so strange, I know
-nothing what they mean. Perhaps they do not know who was your
-mother?"
-
-"I am sure they do," answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the
-words were wrung from her. "But let us talk about something else,
-Alessandro; not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk
-about your staying here."
-
-"Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?"
-said Alessandro.
-
-"You know it would," answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a
-tremor in her voice, which Alessandro felt. "I do not see what we
-could any of us do without you. Felipe says he shall not let you
-go."
-
-Alessandro's face glowed. "It must be as my father says, Senorita,"
-he said. "A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him
-back with a letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed
-to me, and asking him what I should do. My father is very old,
-Senorita, and I do not see how he can well spare me. I am his only
-child, and my mother died years ago. We live alone together in our
-house, and when I am away he is very lonely. But he would like to
-have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope he will think it best
-for me to stay. There are many things we want to do for the
-village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more than
-get what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see
-them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming
-in all around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to
-get a big fence built around our land, so as to show where it is; but
-the people cannot take much time to work on the fence; they need
-all their time to work for themselves and their families. Indians
-have a hard time to live now, Senorita. Were you ever in
-Temecula?"
-
-"No," said Ramona. "Is it a large town?"
-
-Alessandro sighed. "Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a
-little village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those
-are built only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built
-an adobe wall around the graveyard last year. That my father said
-we would do, before we built the fence round the village."
-
-"How many people are there in the village?" asked Ramona.
-
-"Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them
-are away most of the time. They must go where they can get work;
-they are hired by the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or
-to go as shepherds; and some of them take their wives and children
-with them. I do not believe the Senorita has ever seen any very
-poor people."
-
-"Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many
-poor people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every
-week."
-
-"Indians?" said Alessandro.
-
-Ramona colored. "Yes," she said, "some of them were, but not like
-your men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable
-looking; they could not read nor write, and they seemed to have no
-ambition."
-
-"That is the trouble," said Alessandro, "with so many of them; it is
-with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father
-gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He
-gives them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off
-for it. There is only one other man in our village who can read and
-write, besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all
-the time begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But
-they say they have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that,
-Senorita. You see everybody has troubles, Senorita."
-
-Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new
-to her. Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of
-private and personal matters.
-
-"Ah, but these are real troubles," she said. "I do not think mine
-were real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your
-people, Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach
-them, could I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always
-said, that to teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work
-one could do. I wish I could teach your people. Have you any
-relatives there besides your father? Is there any one in the village
-that you -- love, Alessandro?"
-
-Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to
-observe the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this
-question.
-
-"Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and
-sisters, all of my father's people," he said; "and I am unhappy about
-them all the time."
-
-During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an
-undercurrent of thought going on, which was making her uneasy.
-The more Alessandro said about his father and his people, the
-more she realized that he was held to Temecula by bonds that
-would be hard to break, the more she feared his father would not
-let him remain away from home for any length of time. At the
-thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking a
-sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, "Alessandro, I am
-afraid your father will not give his consent to your staying here."
-
-"So am I, Senorita," he replied sadly.
-
-"And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course," she
-said.
-
-"How could I, Senorita?"
-
-"No," she said, "it would not be right;" but as she said these words,
-the tears filled her eyes.
-
-Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second.
-"Senorita! Senorita Ramona!" he cried, "tears have come in your
-eyes! O Senorita, then you will not be angry if I say that I love
-you!" and Alessandro trembled with the terror and delight of
-having said the words.
-
-Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the
-words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,-- "I
-know that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!" Yes, this
-was what the Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he
-stammered, "But you, Senorita, you do not -- you could not --"
-"Yes, Alessandro, I do -- I love you!" in the same clear, firm
-whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's arms were around
-Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than saying, "O
-Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you are
-mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!" But he
-was kissing her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona,
-whispering, "Yes, Alessandro, I do mean it; I will go with you,"
-clung to him with her hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, "I
-will go with you, I love you." And then, just then, came the
-Senora's step, and her sharp cry of amazement, and there she stood,
-no more than an arm's-length away, looking at them with her
-indignant, terrible eyes.
-
-What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he
-crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his
-emotions did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he
-listened for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the
-darkness deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit.
-Darkness in the Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the
-dining-room, soon put out,-- evidently no supper going on there.
-Only from under Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and
-creeping close to the veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully
-talking,-- the Senora's and Felipe's; no word from Ramona.
-Piteously he fixed his eyes on her window; it was open, but the
-curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. Where was she? What had
-been done to his love? Only the tireless caution and infinite
-patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going to her
-window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own
-responsibility. He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his love
-made a sign. Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his
-veranda bed, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was
-near midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and
-his mother came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down
-on his couch; his mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him
-good-night, and went into her own room.
-
-It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping
-on the veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not
-needful. But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not
-surprised when, a few minutes after the Senora's door closed, he
-heard a low voice through the vines, "Senor Felipe?"
-
-"Hush, Alessandro," whispered Felipe. "Do not make a sound.
-To-morrow morning early I will see you, behind the little
-sheepfold. It is not safe to talk here."
-
-"Where is the Senorita?" Alessandro breathed rather than said.
-
-"In her room," answered Felipe.
-
-"Well?" said Alessandro.
-
-"Yes," said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all
-Alessandro had to comfort himself with, through his long night of
-watching. No, not all; one other thing comforted him,-- the notes
-of two wood-doves, that at intervals he heard, cooing to each
-other; just the two notes, the call and the answer, "Love?" "Here."
-"Love?" "Here," -- and long intervals of silence between. Plain as if
-written on a page was the thing they told.
-
-"That is what my Ramona is like," thought he, "the gentle
-wood-dove. If she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the
-Wood-Dove."
-
-XI
-
-WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed.
-After closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done
-about Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking
-all the evening with Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost
-in her mind. But Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would
-not spoil his night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable
-things. Moreover, she was not clear in her own mind what she
-wished to have done about Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent
-away to the nuns, which was the only thing the Senora could think
-of as yet, there would be no reason for discharging Alessandro.
-And with him the Senora was by no means ready to part, though in
-her first anger she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As
-she pursued her reflections, the whole situation cleared itself in her
-mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the plottings and
-plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula no
-allowance for a human element which he cannot control.
-
-Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a
-servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her
-hands of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not
-expect her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her
-roof. Her sister's written instructions had provided for the
-possibility of just such a contingency. Going to a secret closet in
-the wall, behind a life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora
-took out an iron box, battered and rusty with age, and set it on the
-bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. It was many years
-since the Senora had opened this box. No one but herself knew of
-its existence. There had been many times in the history of the
-Moreno house when the price of the contents of that box would
-have averted loss and misfortune; but the Senora no more thought
-of touching the treasure than if it had been guarded by angels with
-fiery swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in the dim
-light of the one candle,-- rubies, emeralds, pearls, and yellow
-diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. "Fine
-dowry, truly, for a creature like this!" she said. "Well I knew in the
-beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, base born, she
-has but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be
-grateful that my own son was too pure to be her prey!" "To be
-given to my adopted daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding
-day," -- so the instructions ran,-- "if she weds worthily and with
-your approval. Should such a misfortune occur, which I do not
-anticipate, as that she should prove unworthy, then these jewels,
-and all I have left to her of value, shall be the property of the
-Church."
-
-"No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she
-proves unworthy," thought the Senora, bitterly; "but the Church is
-the place for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest
-depths of disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had at first
-intended to give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had
-done so, or left it with its Indian mother!" and the Senora rose, and
-paced the floor. The paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at
-her feet. As she walked, her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro.
-She stooped, picked it up, read it again, with increasing bitterness.
-No softness at the memory of her sister's love for the little child;
-no relenting. "Unworthy!" Yes, that was a mild word to apply to
-Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once out of
-the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would
-lead their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day. Was
-there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But
-he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices,
-and Ramona would be forgotten.
-
-The Senora did not know how late it was. "I will tell her to-night,"
-she said. "I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her
-mother was!"
-
-It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul,
-which made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no
-supper, and led her to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some
-bread, and take them to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that
-Felipe might not hear, she opened the door and glided in. No voice
-greeted her; she held her candle high up; no Ramona in sight; the
-bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It was open. A terror
-seized the Senora; fresh anger also. "She has run off with
-Alessandro," she thought, "What horrible disgrace." Standing
-motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other side
-of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had
-melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward
-Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at
-the feet of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left
-hand was under her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the
-base of the statue. She was sound asleep. Her face was wet with
-tears. Her whole attitude was full of significance. Even helpless in
-sleep, she was one who had taken refuge in sanctuary. This
-thought had been distinct in the girl's mind when she found herself,
-spite of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy. "She won't dare to
-hurt me at the Virgin's feet," she had said; "and the window is
-open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will watch."
-And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep.
-
-It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her
-from being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some
-moments looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush
-of disgraceful suspicions, she noted what she had never before
-thought of, that Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe,
-had had close access to Ramona's window. "Shameful creature!"
-she repeated to herself. "And she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if
-the Virgin will hear such!" and she turned away, first setting down
-the jug of milk and the bread on a table. Then, with a sudden and
-still more curious mingling of justness in her wrath, she returned,
-and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over Ramona,
-covering her carefully from head to foot. Then she went out and
-again locked the door.
-
-Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound.
-"Thank God, the poor child is asleep!" he said; "and my poor dear
-mother feared to awake me by speaking to her! What will become
-of us all to-morrow!" And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely
-fallen into an uneasy sleep, when his mother's window opened, and
-she sang the first line of the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona
-joined, evidently awake and ready; and no sooner did the watching
-Alessandro hear the first note of her voice, than he struck in; and
-Margarita, who had been up for an hour, prowling, listening,
-peering, wondering, her soul racked between her jealousy and her
-fears,-- even Margarita delayed not to unite; and Felipe, too, sang
-feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded and
-melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of
-being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one
-of them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and
-Alessandro most of all.
-
-"The saints be praised," said Alessandro. "There is my wood-dove's
-voice. She can sing!" And, "Alessandro was near. He watched all
-night. I am glad he loves me," said Ramona.
-
-"To hear those two voices." said the Senora; "would one suppose
-they could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think."
-
-As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold,
-where Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be
-like years to Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.
-
-Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and
-bread and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the
-Senora's own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard
-her the previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently
-take it out; and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a
-prisoner would be known to none but the Senora herself. The
-Senora would not set servants to gossiping. She ate her bread and
-milk thankfully, for she was very hungry. Then she set her room in
-order, said her prayers, and sat down to wait. For what? She could
-not imagine; in truth, she did not much try. Ramona had passed
-now into a country where the Senora did not rule. She felt little
-fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going away
-presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and
-freedom lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these
-two new-born emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as
-she opened the door, and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with
-a steady look, entered the room. This joyous composure on
-Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it had done before, when she
-was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed to her like nothing
-less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the whole tone and
-manner of her address.
-
-Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the
-room, she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, "What have you to
-say for yourself?"
-
-Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona
-spoke in the same calm tone in which she had twice the evening
-before attempted to stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not
-interrupted.
-
-"Senora," she said slowly, "I tried to tell you last night, but you
-would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been
-so angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and
-we were not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be
-married, and go away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done
-for me; I am sure you will be a great deal happier when I am
-away;" and Ramona looked wistfully, with no shade of resentment,
-into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. "You have been very good to
-do so much for a girl you did not love. Thank you for the bread
-and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away with Alessandro to-day.
-I do not know what he will wish. We had only just that minute
-spoken of being married, when you found us last night."
-
-The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took
-to say these words. She was dumb with amazement.
-Instantaneously, on the first sense of relief that the disgrace had
-not been what she supposed, followed a new wrath, if possible
-hotter than the first; not so much scorn, but a bitterer anger.
-"Marry! Marry that Indian!" she cried, as soon as she found voice.
-"You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I will never permit
-it."
-
-Ramona looked anxiously at her. "I have never disobeyed you,
-Senora," she said, "but this is different from all other things; you
-are not my mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro."
-
-The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.
-
-"No," she said icily, "I am not your mother; but I stand in a
-mother's place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she
-gave you to me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I
-forbid you ever to speak again of marrying this Indian."
-
-The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her
-surprise and cost, of what stuff this girl was made, -- this girl, who
-had for fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and
-uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and
-walking swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora,
-who, herself startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to
-her feet, Ramona said, in a louder, firmer voice: "Senora Moreno,
-you may forbid me as much as you please. The whole world
-cannot keep me from marrying Alessandro. I love him. I have
-promised, and I shall keep my word." And with her young lithe
-arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown back, Ramona
-flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. It was
-the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself
-buoyed up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from
-her like a garment thrown off.
-
-"Pshaw!" said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of
-her wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, "you
-talk like a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the
-nunnery to-morrow, if I choose?"
-
-"No, you cannot!" replied Ramona,
-
-"Who, then, is to hinder me." said the Senora, insolently.
-
-"Alessandro!" answered Ramona, proudly.
-
-"Alessandro!" the Senora sneered. "Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly
-Indian, on whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha,
-ha!"
-
-The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. "You would
-never dare!" she cried; "Felipe would not permit it!" A most
-unwise retort for Ramona.
-
-"Felipe!" cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. "How dare you
-pronounce his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid
-him to speak to you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you
-when he hears the truth."
-
-"You are mistaken, Senora," answered Ramona, more gently.
-"Felipe is Alessandro's friend, and -- mine," she added, after a
-second's pause.
-
-"So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of
-Moreno!" cried the Senora. "We will see! we will see! Follow me,
-Senorita Ramona!" And throwing open the door, the Senora strode
-out, looking back over her shoulder.
-
-"Follow me!" she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona
-hesitated; and Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the
-dining-room, out into the veranda, down the entire length of it, to
-the Senora's room,-- the Senora walking with a quick, agitated
-step, strangely unlike her usual gait; Ramona walking far slower
-than was her habit, and with her eyes bent on the ground. As they
-passed the dining-room door, Margarita, standing just inside, shot
-at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance.
-
-"She would help the Senora against me in anything," thought
-Ramona; and she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all
-her threats had not stirred.
-
-The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew
-the curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her
-every movement.
-
-"Sit down in that chair," said the Senora, pointing to one near the
-fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona.
-
-"I would rather stand, Senora," she said.
-
-"Do as I bid you." said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona
-obeyed. It was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it,
-her senses seemed leaving her. She leaned her head against the
-back and closed her eyes. The room swam. She was roused by the
-Senora's strong smelling-salts held for her to breathe, and a
-mocking taunt from the Senora's iciest voice: "The Senorita does
-not seem so over-strong as she did a few moments back!"
-
-Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to
-her, in this room, within call of the whole house. But an
-inexplicable terror had got possession of her; and when the Senora,
-with a sneer on her face, took hold of the Saint Catharine statue,
-and wheeling it half around, brought into view a door in the wall,
-with a big iron key in the keyhole, which she proceeded to turn,
-Ramona shook with fright. She had read of persons who had been
-shut up alive in cells in the wall, and starved to death. With
-dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all unaware of her
-terror, was prolonging it and intensifying it by her every act. First
-she took out the small iron box, and set it on a table. Then,
-kneeling, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a large
-leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and scraping along the
-floor, till it stood in front of Ramona. All this time she spoke no
-word, and the cruel expression of her countenance deepened each
-moment. The fiends had. possession of the Senora Moreno this
-morning, and no mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might
-have indeed been fearful, at being locked up alone with a woman
-who looked. like that.
-
-Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its
-place. Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust
-into the wall closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the
-old battered boxes. What could it all mean?
-
-"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora, drawing up a chair,
-and seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, "I will
-now explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro."
-
-At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,-- not her old
-self, her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of
-his name, even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The
-terrors fled away. She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the
-nearest window. She was young and strong; at one bound, if worst
-came to worst, she could leap through the window, and fly for her
-life, calling on Alessandro.
-
-"I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno," she said, in
-a tone as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own.
-
-The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, "Do not
-interrupt me again. I have much to tell you;" and opening the box,
-she lifted out and placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The
-sheet of written paper lay at the bottom of the box.
-
-"Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?" she asked, holding it
-up. Ramona bowed her head. "This was written by my sister, the
-Senora Ortegna, who adopted you and gave you her name. These
-were her final instructions to me, in regard to the disposition to be
-made of the property she left to you."
-
-Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening,
-while the Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up
-pain, wonder, fear of her childhood and her girlhood, as to the
-mystery of her birth, swept over her anew, now. Like one
-hearkening for life or death, she listened. She forgot Alessandro.
-She did not look at the jewels. Her eyes never left the Senora's
-face. At the close of the reading, the Senora said sternly, "You see,
-now, that my sister left to me the entire disposition of everything
-belonging to you,"
-
-"But it hasn't said who was my mother," cried Ramona. "Is that all
-there is in the paper?"
-
-The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care
-nothing that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost
-to her forever?
-
-"Who was your mother?" she exclaimed, scornfully, "There was no
-need to write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody
-knew that!"
-
-At the word "Indian," Ramona gave a low cry.
-
-The Senora misunderstood it. "Ay," she said, "a low, common
-Indian. I told my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in
-your veins would show some day; and now it has come true."
-
-Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. "Yes, Senora
-Moreno," she said, springing to her feet; "the Indian blood in my
-veins shows to-day. I understand many things I never understood
-before. Was it because I was an Indian that you have always hated
-me?"
-
-"You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you," interrupted
-the Senora.
-
-Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more.
-impetuously. "And if I am an Indian, why do you object to my
-marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am glad I am an Indian! I am of his
-people. He will be glad!" The words poured like a torrent out of
-her lips. In her excitement she came closer and closer to the
-Senora. "You are a cruel woman," she said. "I did not know it
-before; but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no
-reason to treat me so shamefully as you did last night, when you
-saw me with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my mother
-alive'? Where does she live? Tell me; and I will go to her to-day.
-Tell me! She will be glad that Alessandro loves me!"
-
-It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the
-Senora answered: "I have not the least idea who your mother was,
-or if she is still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,--
-some low, vicious creature, that your father married when he was
-out of his senses, as you are now, when you talk of marrying
-Alessandro!"
-
-"He married her, then?" asked Ramona, with emphasis. "How
-know you that, Senora Moreno?"
-
-"He told my sister so," replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged
-the girl even this much of consolation.
-
-"What was his name?" asked Ramona.
-
-"Phail; Angus Phail," the Senora replied almost mechanically. She
-found herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious
-earnestness, and she chafed under it. The tables were being turned
-on her, she hardly knew how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature,
-and to have the bearing of the one in authority, as she stood before
-her pouring out passionate question after question. The Senora
-turned to the larger box, and opened it. With unsteady hands she
-lifted out the garments which for so many years had rarely seen the
-light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, gowns of satin, of
-velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the chairs, it was a
-glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's eyes rested on
-them dreamily.
-
-"Did my adopted mother wear all these?" she asked, lifting in her
-hand a fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident
-admiration.
-
-Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not
-insensible to the value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps
-she would be lured by it.
-
-"All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding
-day, if you marry worthily, with my permission," said the Senora,
-in a voice a shade less cold than had hitherto come from her lips.
-"Did you understand what I read you?"
-
-The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged,
-crimson silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one
-corner of the jewel-box.
-
-"There are pearls in that," said the Senora; "that came with the
-things your father sent to my sister when he died."
-
-Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The
-handkerchief was old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for
-years. As she reached the last knot, and felt the hard stones, she
-paused. "This was my father's, then." she said.
-
-"Yes," said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a
-new baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all
-which had been her father's property. "They were your father's, and
-all these rubies, and these yellow diamonds;" and she pushed the
-tray towards her.
-
-Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief
-carefully above the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy
-fragrance came from the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies,
-rolling right and left, making the rubies look still redder by
-contrast with their snowy whiteness.
-
-"I will keep this handkerchief," she said, thrusting it as she spoke,
-by a swift resolute movement into her bosom. "I am very glad to
-have one thing that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you
-can give to the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I
-shall marry Alessandro;" and still keeping one hand in her bosom
-where she had thrust the handkerchief, she walked away and
-seated herself again in her chair.
-
-Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a
-spear-thrust, There could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal
-excitement under which she had been laboring for the last
-twenty-four hours, than the fact that she had not once, during all
-this time, thought to ask herself what Father Salvierderra would
-say, or might command, in this crisis. Her religion and the long
-habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from her in her sudden
-wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that she became
-conscious of this.
-
-"Father Salvierderra?" she stammered; "he has nothing to do with
-it."
-
-But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and
-followed up her advantage. "Father Salvierderra has to do with
-everything," she said boldly. "He knows Alessandro, He will not
-forbid me to marry him, and if he did --" Ramona stopped. She
-also was smitten with a sudden terror at the vista opening before
-her,-- of a disobedience to Father Salvierderra.
-
-"And if he did," repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly,
-"would you disobey him?"
-
-"Yes," said Ramona.
-
-"I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say," retorted the Senora,
-sarcastically, "that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying
-any commands on you, to be thus disobeyed."
-
-Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no
-other of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring.
-Dearly she loved the old monk; had loved him since her earliest
-recollection. His displeasure would be far more dreadful to her
-than the Senora's. His would give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost,
-only terror.
-
-Clasping her hands, she said, "Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say
-that to the Father!"
-
-"It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my
-family," answered the Senora, chillingly. "He will agree with me,
-that if you persist in this disobedience you will deserve the
-severest punishment. I shall tell him all;" and she began putting the
-trays back in the box.
-
-"You will not tell him as it really is, Senora," persisted Ramona. "I
-will tell him myself."
-
-"You shall not see him! I will take care of that!" cried the Senora,
-so vindictively that Ramona shuddered.
-
-"I will give you one more chance," said the Senora, pausing in the
-act of folding up one of the damask gowns. "Will you obey me?
-Will you promise to have nothing more to do with this Indian?"
-
-"Never, Senora," replied Ramona; "never!"
-
-"Then the consequences be on your own head," cried the Senora.
-"Go to your room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to
-Senor Felipe. Do you hear?"
-
-Ramona bowed her head. "I hear," she said; and gliding out of the
-room, closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her
-room, sped like a hunted creature down the veranda steps, across
-the garden, calling in a low tone, "Felipe! Felipe! Where are you,
-Felipe?"
-
-XII
-
-THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on
-that southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a
-temptation to Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It
-was almost like a terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being
-near the bottom, was wholly out of sight of the house. This was the
-reason Felipe had selected it as the safest spot for his talk with
-Alessandro.
-
-When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden,
-she halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As
-she entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a
-glimpse of some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning
-off in the path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood
-irresolute for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. "If the
-saints would only tell me where he is!" she said aloud. She
-trembled as she stood there, fearing each second to hear the
-Senora's voice calling her. But fortune was favoring Ramona, for
-once; even as the words passed her lips, she saw Felipe coming
-slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. "Oh, Felipe, Felipe!"
-she began.
-
-"Yes, dear, I know it all," interrupted Felipe; "Alessandro has told
-me."
-
-"She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe," said Ramona, "but I
-could not bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?"
-
-"My mother forbade you to speak to me!" cried Felipe, in a tone of
-terror. "Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us
-talking, she will be even more displeased. Fly back to your room.
-Leave it all to me. I will do all that I can."
-
-"But, Felipe," began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress.
-
-"I know! I know!" said Felipe; "but you must not make my mother
-any more angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her.
-Do go back to your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?"
-
-"Yes," sobbed Ramona, "but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid!
-Do help us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in
-the convent, will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go
-away with him this minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go
-now."
-
-Felipe's face was horror-stricken. "Shut you in the convent!" he
-gasped. "Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room.
-Let me talk to her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if
-she sees me talking with you now;" and he turned away, and
-walked swiftly down the terrace.
-
-Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could
-she go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path
-again, meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where
-was Alessandro? Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart
-failed her; and when she entered her room, she sank on the floor in
-a paroxysm of hopeless weeping. If she had known that Alessandro
-was already a good half-hour's journey on his way to Temecula,
-galloping farther and farther away from her each moment, she
-would have despaired indeed.
-
-This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had
-counselled him to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a
-description of the Senora's face and tone, when she had ordered
-him out of her sight, that Felipe was alarmed. He had never seen
-his mother angry like that. He could not conceive why her wrath
-should have been so severe. The longer he talked with Alessandro,
-the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be out of sight till
-the first force of her anger had been spent. "I will say that I sent
-you," said Felipe, "so she cannot feel that you have committed any
-offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time it will
-be all settled what you shall do."
-
-It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it
-did not need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that
-it would be foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him
-that it would be out of the question.
-
-"But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is
-for her sake I go?" the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into
-Felipe's eyes as if he would read his inmost soul.
-
-"I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will," replied Felipe; and he held his
-hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. "You may trust
-me to do all I can do for Ramona and for you."
-
-"God bless you, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, gravely, a
-slight trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was
-moved.
-
-"He's a noble fellow," said Felipe to himself, as he watched
-Alessandro leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the
-corral all night,-- "a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my
-friends who would have been manlier or franker than he has been
-in this whole business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona
-loves him. He's a noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to
-be done!"
-
-Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had
-ever arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was
-coming now. He was unaware of the extent of his influence over
-her. He doubted whether he could move her very far. The threat of
-shutting Ramona up in the convent terrified him more than he
-liked to admit to himself. Had she power to do that? Felipe did not
-know. She must believe that she had, or she would not have made
-the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the cruel injustice of the
-idea.
-
-"As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!" he said.
-"I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What
-can make my mother feel so!" And Felipe paced back and forth till
-the sun was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that
-he must seek shelter; then he threw himself down under the
-willows. He dreaded to go into the house. His instinctive shrinking
-from the disagreeable, his disposition to put off till another time,
-held him back, hour by hour. The longer he thought the situation
-over, the less he knew how to broach the subject to his mother; the
-more uncertain he felt whether it would be wise for him to broach
-it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. It was Margarita, who
-had been sent to call him to dinner. "Good heavens! dinner
-already!" he cried, springing to his feet.
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had
-seen him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping
-away down the river road. She had also gathered much from the
-Senora's look, and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door
-together soon after breakfast. Margarita could have given a
-tolerably connected account of all that had happened within the
-last twenty-four hours to the chief actors in this tragedy which had
-so suddenly begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to
-know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and her every pulse was
-beating high with excited conjecture and wonder as to what would
-come next.
-
-Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,-- Ramona absent, the
-fiction of her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike
-himself; the Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first
-glance in Felipe's face, she thought to herself, "Ramona has spoken
-to him. When and how did she do it?" For it had been only a few
-moments after Ramona had left her presence, that she herself had
-followed, and, seeing the girl in her own room, had locked the
-door as before, and had spent the rest of the morning on the
-veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, when, and
-where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer
-the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt;
-to be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under
-her very eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not
-only against her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger
-even rippled out towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of
-Ramona's unwise retort, "Felipe would not let you!" What had
-Felipe done or said to make the girl so sure that he would be on her
-side and Alessandro's? Was it come to this, that she, the Senora
-Moreno, was to be defied in her own house by children and
-servants!
-
-It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as
-she rose from the dinner-table, "My son, I would like to have some
-conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure."
-
-"Certainly, mother," said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her
-having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and
-walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around
-her waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She
-repulsed him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand
-through his arm, and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said:
-"This is the most fitting way, my son. I must lean more and more
-heavily on you each year now. Age is telling on me fast. Do you
-not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in the last year?"
-
-"No, madre mia," replied Felipe, "indeed I do not. I see not that
-you have changed in the last ten years." And he was honest in this.
-His eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the
-best of reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld;
-it was kindled by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was
-turned towards him.
-
-The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: "That must be because
-you so love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day.
-Troubles tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even
-within the last twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged
-frightfully;" and she looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself
-in the arm-chair where poor Ramona had swooned a few hours
-before. Felipe remained standing before her, gazing, with a tender
-expression, upon her features, but saying nothing.
-
-"I see that Ramona has told you all!" she continued, her voice
-hardening as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence!
-
-"No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me
-this morning, early," Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw
-the conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. "He came
-and spoke to me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait
-till morning, and then I would hear all he had to say."
-
-"Ah!" said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent,
-she asked, "And what did he say?"
-
-"He told me all that had happened."
-
-"All!" said the Senora, sneeringly. "Do you suppose that he told
-you all?"
-
-"He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight," said
-Felipe, "and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at
-once. I thought you would prefer not to see him again."
-
-"Ah!" said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so
-promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone.
-"Ah, I did not know whether you would think it best to discharge
-him at once or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not
-know but you might devise some measures by which he could be
-retained on the estate."
-
-Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like
-the relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have
-been dreaming? In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's
-words carefully; he did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did
-not stop to make sure that retaining Alessandro on the estate might
-not of necessity bode any good to Ramona; but with his usual
-impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the first glimpse of hope, that all
-was well, he exclaimed joyfully, "Ah, dear mother, if that could
-only be done, all would be well;" and, never noting the expression
-of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, he poured out all
-he thought and felt on the subject.
-
-"That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he
-and Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid
-fellow, and the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the
-men like him; he would make a capital overseer; and if we put him
-in charge of the whole estate, there would not be any objection to
-his marrying Ramona. That would give them a good living here
-with us."
-
-"Enough!" cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears
-like a voice from some other world,-- so hollow, so strange. He
-stopped speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the
-first words he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the
-floor,-- a habit of hers when she wished to listen with close
-attention. Lifting her eyes now, fixing them full on Felipe, she
-regarded him with a look which not all his filial reverence could
-bear without resentment. It was nearly as scornful as that with
-which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored.
-
-"Why do you look at me like that, mother?" he exclaimed. "What
-have I done?"
-
-The Senora waved her hand imperiously. "Enough!" she reiterated.
-"Do not say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;" and she
-fixed her eyes on the floor again.
-
-Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling
-than he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart.
-Now he for the first time perceived what terror his mother must
-inspire in a girl like Ramona.
-
-"Poor little one!" he thought. "If my mother looked at her as she
-did at me just now, I wonder she did not die."
-
-A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against
-Ramona was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had
-now been the cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for
-the first time in his whole life, angered her beyond her control.
-
-"As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature," she
-thought bitterly to herself, "without her coming between me and
-Felipe!"
-
-But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like
-a fresh lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its
-predecessor, came the rush of the mother's passionate love for her
-son close on the passionate anger at his words.
-
-When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote
-Felipe to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks,
-and she said in trembling tones: "Forgive me, my child; I had not
-thought anything could make me thus angry with you. That
-shameless creature is costing us too dear. She must leave the
-house."
-
-Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then.
-A bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears
-made him tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that
-he replied: "I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless.
-There is nothing wrong in her loving Alessandro."
-
-"I found her in his arms!" exclaimed the Senora.
-
-"I know," said Felipe; "Alessandro told me that he had just at that
-instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and
-would marry him, just as you came up."
-
-"Humph!" retorted the Senora; "do you think that Indian would
-have dared to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona
-Ortegna, if she had not conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder
-that he concerned himself to speak about marriage to her at all."
-
-"Oh, mother! mother!" was all that Felipe could say to this. He was
-aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his
-mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. "Mother!" he
-repeated, in a tone which spoke volumes.
-
-"Ay," she continued, "that is what I say. I see no reason why he
-hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with
-small ceremony of marrying."
-
-"Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than
-I would, mother," said Felipe courageously; "you do him injustice."
-He longed to add, "And Ramona too," but he feared to make bad
-matters worse by pleading for her at present.
-
-"No, I do not," said the Senora; "I do Alessandro full justice. I
-think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under
-the same temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for
-all that has happened. It is all Ramona's fault."
-
-Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very
-closely this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in
-his boyhood, and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood,
-had twined herself around his heart. He could not remain silent
-another moment, and hear her thus wickedly accused.
-
-"Mother!" he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up
-at him in sudden astonishment. "Mother, I cannot help it if I make
-you very angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such
-things of Ramona. I have seen for a long time that Alessandro
-loved the very ground under her feet; and Ramona would not have
-been a woman if she had not seen it too! She has seen it, and has
-felt it, and has come to love him with all her soul, just as I hope
-some woman will love me one of these days. If I am ever loved as
-well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think they ought to
-be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to the
-estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful in
-it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly
-natural. You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to
-our family; you know she is half Indian." A scornful ejaculation
-from his mother interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly
-because he was borne out of himself at last by impetuous feeling,
-partly that he dreaded to stop, because if he did, his mother would
-speak; and already he felt a terror of what her next words might be.
-"I have often thought about Ramona's future, mother. You know a
-great many men would not want to marry her, just because she is
-half Indian. You, yourself, would never have given your consent to
-my marrying her, if I had wanted to." Again an exclamation from
-the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe
-pressed on. "No, of course you would not, I always knew that;
-except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl
-never drew breath in this God's earth." Felipe was reckless now;
-having entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon
-that lay within his reach; if one did not tell, another might. "You
-have never loved her. I don't know that you have ever even liked
-her; I don't think you have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to
-see how much kinder you were to me than to her, and I never
-could understand it. And you are unjust to her now. I've been
-watching her all summer; I've seen her and Alessandro together
-continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been with us on
-the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the family. I've
-watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I thought you
-must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever looked or
-said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I don't
-believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not
-be willing to have my own sister do!" Here Felipe paused. He had
-made his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his
-forces at the onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take
-Gibraltars.
-
-When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,-- and
-even yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever
-undermined his constitution,-- the Senora looked at him
-interrogatively, and said in a now composed tone: "You do not
-believe that Ramona has done anything that you would not be
-willing to have your own sister do? Would you be willing that your
-own sister should marry Alessandro?"
-
-Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had
-been speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be
-beyond her power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to
-try to do. Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing
-Felipe. Nothing could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a
-resentful mood towards her; or so weaken her real control of him,
-as to have him feel that she arbitrarily overruled his preference or
-his purpose. In presence of her imperious will, even her wrath
-capitulated and surrendered. There would be no hot words between
-her and her son. He should believe that he determined the policy of
-the Moreno house, even in this desperate crisis.
-
-Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field
-than the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately,
-in her wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she
-had not been for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and
-Ramona at the brook. How just and reasonable the question
-sounded, as she repeated it slowly, with an expression in her eyes,
-of poising and weighing matters. "Would you be willing that your
-own sister should marry Alessandro?"
-
-Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He
-could give but one answer to this question. "No, mother," he said,
-"I should not; but --"
-
-"Never mind buts," interrupted his mother; "we have not got to
-those yet;" and she smiled on Felipe,-- an affectionate smile, but it
-somehow gave him a feeling of dread. "Of course I knew you
-could make but one answer to my question. If you had a sister, you
-would rather see her dead than married to any one of these
-Indians."
-
-Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. "Not so," he said.
-
-"Wait, dear!" exclaimed his mother. "One thing at a time, I see
-how full your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my
-son than when listening just now to your eloquent defence of
-Ramona, Perhaps you may be right and I wrong as to her character
-and conduct. We will not discuss those points." It was here that the
-Senora had perceived some things that it would be out of her
-power to do. "We will not discuss those, because they do not touch
-the real point at issue. What it is our duty to do by Ramona, in
-such a matter as this, does not turn on her worthiness or
-unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you to allow her to do
-what you would not allow your own sister to do?" The Senora
-paused for a second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled
-and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went
-on, "You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?"
-And now the Senora waited for an answer.
-
-"No, mother," came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. "I suppose not;
-but --"
-
-"I was sure my own son could make no other reply," interrupted
-the Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than
-reply to her questions. "Of course it would not be right for us to let
-Ramona do anything which we would not let her do if she were
-really of our own blood. That is the way I have always looked at
-my obligation to her. My sister intended to rear her as her own
-daughter. She had given her her own name. When my sister died,
-she transferred to me all her right and responsibility in and for the
-child. You do not suppose that if your aunt had lived, she would
-have ever given her consent to her adopted daughter's marrying an
-Indian, do you?"
-
-Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe
-said, in a low tone, "No, I suppose she would not."
-
-"Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only
-that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would
-consider disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray
-the trust reposed in us by the only person who had a right to
-control her, and who transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?"
-
-"Yes, mother," said the unhappy Felipe.
-
-He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a
-flaw somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it
-out; in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain
-was confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that
-after all had been said and done, Ramona would still marry
-Alessandro. But it was evident that it would never be with his
-mother's consent. "Nor with mine either, openly, the way she puts
-it. I don't see how it can be; and yet I have promised Alessandro to
-do all I could for him. Curse the luck, I wish he had never set foot
-on the place!" said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable, and
-tired with the perplexity.
-
-The Senora continued: "I shall always blame myself bitterly for
-having failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro
-has been with us a great deal since your illness, with his music,
-and singing, and one thing and another; but I can truly say that I
-never thought of Ramona's being in danger of looking upon him in
-the light of a possible lover, any more than of her looking thus
-upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any other of the herdsmen or
-laborers. I regret it more than words can express, and I do not
-know what we can do, now that it has happened."
-
-"That's it, mother! That's it!" broke in Felipe. "You see, you see it
-is too late now."
-
-The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. "I suppose you
-would really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your
-word is in a way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would
-stay on the place, Of course, now that all this has happened, it
-would be very unpleasant for Ramona to stay here, and see him
-continually -- at least for a time, until she gets over this strange
-passion she seems to have conceived for him. It will not last. Such
-sudden passions never do." The Senora artfully interpolated, "What
-should you think, Felipe, of having her go back to the Sisters'
-school for a time? She was very happy there."
-
-The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control
-suddenly gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the
-beginning, he spoke again now, nerved by the memory of
-Ramona's face and tone as she had cried to him in the garden, "Oh,
-Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the convent, will you?"
-"Mother!" he cried, "you would never do that. You would not shut
-the poor girl up in the convent!"
-
-The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "Who spoke of
-shutting up?" she said. "Ramona has already been there at school.
-She might go again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene
-and occupation is the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing
-of this sort to get over. Can you propose anything better, my son?
-What would you advise?" And a third time the Senora paused for
-an answer.
-
-These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like
-nothing in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes
-when, withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim,
-which still supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and
-watches the victim flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming,
-taking for granted as settled, much which had never been settled at
-all, were among the best weapons in the Senora's armory. They
-rarely failed her.
-
-"Advise!" cried Felipe, excitedly. "Advise! This is what I advise --
-to let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about
-our obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward
-complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it."
-
-"Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house," interrupted the
-Senora, sighing. "I don't quite see how you would face it."
-
-"Well, I don't propose to face it," continued Felipe, testily. "I don't
-propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go
-away with him, if she wants to.'
-
-"Without our consent?" said the Senora, gently.
-
-"Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have
-stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about
-marrying her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her
-go! She will go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves
-Alessandro, or how he loves her. Let her go!"
-
-"Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to
-that?" asked the Senora, earnestly. "Run away and marry him, spite
-of our refusing to consent to the marriage?"
-
-"I do," said Felipe.
-
-"Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, is
-to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what
-she pleases?"
-
-"That's just what I do think, mother," replied Felipe, his heart
-growing lighter at her words. "That's just what I do think. We can't
-prevent it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do
-as they like."
-
-"Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then," said the Senora.
-"They could not stay here."
-
-"I don't see why!" said Felipe, anxiously.
-
-"You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give
-a stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them
-here? Don't you see that would be so?"
-
-Felipe's eyes fell. "Then I suppose they couldn't be married here,
-either," he said,
-
-"What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily
-approved of, my son?"
-
-"True, mother;" and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. "But
-then we force them to run away!"
-
-"Oh, no." said the Senora, icily. "If they go, they will go of their
-own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and
-wrong. If they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure
-responsible for not having prevented it. But if you think it is not
-wise, or of no use to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be
-done."
-
-Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed
-his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange
-complication, network of circumstances, had forced him into a
-false position; he did not see what more he could ask, what more
-could be asked, of his mother; he did not see, either, that much less
-could have been granted to Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry,
-wearied, perplexed.
-
-The Senora studied his face. "You do not seem satisfied, Felipe
-dear," she said tenderly. "As, indeed, how could you be in this
-unfortunate state of affairs? But can you think of anything different
-for us to do?"
-
-"No," said Felipe, bitterly. "I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just
-turning Ramona out of the house, that's all."
-
-"Felipe! Felipe!" exclaimed the Senora, "how unjust you are to
-yourself! You know you would never do that! You know that she
-has always had a home here as if she were a daughter; and always
-will have, as long as she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back
-on it, and go away, is it our fault? Do not let your pity for this
-misguided girl blind you to what is just to yourself and to me. Turn
-Ramona out of the house! You know I promised my sister to bring
-her up as my own child; and I have always felt that my son would
-receive the trust from me, when I died. Ramona has a home under
-the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. It is not just, Felipe,
-to say that we turn her out;" and tears stood in the Senora's eyes.
-
-"Forgive me, dear mother," cried the unhappy Felipe. "Forgive me
-for adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this
-miserable business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see
-anything as it is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were
-done with."
-
-"Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe," replied the
-Senora. "If it were not for you, I should long ago have broken
-down beneath my cares and burdens. But among them all, have
-been few so grievous as this. I feel myself and our home
-dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe, I wish it were
-done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send for Ramona at
-once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt in great
-anxiety; we will see her here."
-
-Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as
-he knew not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's
-suggestion.
-
-Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the
-passage-way, unlocked Ramona's door, and said: "Ramona, be so
-good as to come to my room. Felipe and I have something to say to
-you."
-
-Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, "Felipe and I,"
-boded no good.
-
-"The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,"
-thought Ramona. "Oh, what will become of me!" and she stole a
-reproachful, imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way
-which reassured her; but the reassurance did not last long.
-
-"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He
-had had no conception that his mother could speak in that way.
-The words seemed to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest
-of the world, so cold and distant they sounded,-- as the Senora
-might speak to an intruding stranger.
-
-"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," she said, "my son and I have been
-discussing what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and
-humiliating position in which you place us by your relation with
-the Indian Alessandro. Of course you know -- or you ought to
-know -- that it is utterly impossible for us to give our consent to
-your making such a marriage; we should be false to a trust, and
-dishonor our own family name, if we did that."
-
-Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but
-no sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing
-him with downcast eyes, and an expression of angry
-embarrassment on his face, despair seized her. Felipe had deserted
-their cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro! Clasping her hands,
-she uttered a low cry,-- a cry that cut Felipe to the heart. He was
-finding out, in thus being witness of Ramona's suffering, that she
-was far nearer and dearer to him than he had realized. It would
-have taken very little, at such moments as these, to have made
-Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her side,
-folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It
-took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust
-to Ramona's understanding him later.
-
-Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the
-Senora's sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but
-continued: "My son tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would
-make no difference; that you would go away with the man all the
-same. I suppose he is right in thinking so, as you yourself told me
-that even if Father Salvierderra forbade it, you would disobey him.
-Of course, if this is your determination, we are powerless. Even if I
-were to put you in the keeping of the Church, which is what I am
-sure my sister, who adopted you as her child, would do, if she were
-alive, you would devise some means of escape, and thus bring a
-still greater and more public scandal on the family. Felipe thinks
-that it is not worth while to attempt to bring you to reason in that
-way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I wish to impress it upon
-you that my son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's
-representative, consider you a member of our own family. So long
-as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it always
-has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and us
-by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves."
-
-The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on
-the Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the
-girl was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her
-instincts and her perceptions were sharpened by love.
-
-"Have you anything to say to me or to my son?" asked the Senora.
-
-"No, Senora," replied Ramona; "I do not think of anything more to
-say than I said this morning. Yes," she added, "there is. Perhaps I
-shall not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once
-more for the home you have given me for so many years. And you
-too, Felipe," she continued, turning towards Felipe, her face
-changing, all her pent-up affection and sorrow looking out of her
-tearful eyes,-- "you too, dear Felipe. You have always been so good
-to me. I shall always love you as long as I live;" and she held out
-both her hands to him. Felipe took them in his, and was about to
-speak, when the Senora interrupted him. She did not intend to have
-any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between her son
-and Ramona.
-
-"Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?" she
-said. "Is it your purpose to go at once?"
-
-"I do not know, Senora," stammered Ramona; "I have not seen
-Alessandro; I have not heard --" And she looked up in distress at
-Felipe, who answered compassionately,--
-
-"Alessandro has gone."
-
-"Gone!" shrieked Ramona. "Gone! not gone, Felipe!"
-
-"Only for four days," replied Felipe. "To Temecula. I thought it
-would be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come
-back immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow."
-
-"Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go
-with him? Oh, why, why did he go?" cried Ramona.
-
-"He went because my son told him to go," broke in the Senora,
-impatient of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in
-Felipe's expressive features. "My son thought, and rightly, that the
-sight of him would be more than I could bear just now; so he
-ordered him to go away, and Alessandro obeyed."
-
-Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away
-from Felipe, and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless
-spite of the streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she
-spoke, "You have been cruel; God will punish you!" and without
-waiting to see what effect her words had produced, without
-looking again at Felipe, she walked swiftly out of the room.
-
-"You see," said the Senora, "you see she defies us."
-
-"She is desperate," said Felipe. "I am sorry I sent Alessandro
-away."
-
-"No, my son," replied the Senora, "you were wise, as you always
-are. It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in
-solitude."
-
-"You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?" cried
-Felipe.
-
-The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on
-him. "You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say
-that all we could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any
-way? To wash our hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility
-about her?"
-
-"Yes, yes," said the baffled Felipe; "that was what I said. But,
-mother --" He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say.
-
-The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious
-inquiry.
-
-"What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought
-to say or do?" she asked.
-
-"What is it you are going to do, mother?" said Felipe. "I don't seem
-to understand what you are going to do."
-
-"Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort
-would be thrown away. I shall do nothing," replied the Senora.
-"Nothing whatever."
-
-"Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it
-always has been?" said Felipe.
-
-The Senora smiled sadly. "Dear Felipe, do you think that possible?
-A girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only
-you and me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace
-both on the Moreno and the Ortegna name,-- we can't feel exactly
-the same towards her as we did before, can we?"
-
-Felipe made an impatient gesture. "No, of course not. But I mean,
-is everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?"
-
-"I supposed so," said the Senora. "Was not that your idea? We
-must try to have it so, I think. Do not you?"
-
-"Yes," groaned Felipe, "if we can!"
-
-XIII
-
-THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in
-this matter of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over
-her conversation with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally
-attained was from the thing she had in view when she began. To
-have Ramona sent to the convent, Alessandro kept as overseer of
-the place, and the Ortegna jewels turned into the treasury of the
-Church,-- this was the plan she had determined on in her own
-mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not to be overseer on the
-place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she would be married
-to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and the Ortegna
-jewels,-- well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; that
-should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora
-was, she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question
-wholly into her own hands.
-
-One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to
-them. He had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was
-far too much in sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the
-situation. He would be sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's
-right of ownership. It was not impossible that Father Salvierderra
-might have the same feeling. If so, she must yield; but that would
-go harder with her than all the rest. Almost the Senora would have
-been ready to keep the whole thing a secret from the Father, if he
-had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's death fully
-informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her adopted child.
-At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father came again,
-and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. The
-treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all
-these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona
-went away with Alessandro, she would write to Father
-Salvierderra, simply stating the facts in her own way, and telling
-him that all further questions must wait for decision until they met.
-
-And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her
-tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the
-partial failure of her plans.
-
-There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It
-has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals, -- a system so
-ingenious that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot
-still find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this
-ingenuity at reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this
-regard, it outdoes vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows
-when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all
-disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and
-fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never
-admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than
-in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on till death. It
-is impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration for this kind
-of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are to all who come in their
-way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, when pride demands
-the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the
-earth, when all other motives have died out of men's breasts; has
-won many a crown, which has not been called by its true name.
-
-Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart
-of the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her
-discomfiture soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her
-habitual occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was
-going to do "nothing" in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew
-how much that meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were
-sure that Felipe also would do "nothing;" but her mind still
-misgave her about Felipe. Unpityingly she had led him on, and
-entangled him in his own words, step by step, till she had brought
-him to the position she wished him to take. Ostensibly, his position
-and hers were one, their action a unit; all the same, she did not
-deceive herself as to his real feeling about the affair. He loved
-Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question of family
-pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested it, and
-which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press
-it,-- barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry
-Ramona and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost
-in Felipe's mind again when he was removed from the pressure of
-her influence. Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him
-on the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends
-would be best attained by taking and keeping the ground that the
-question of their non-interference having been settled once for all,
-the painful topic should never be renewed between them. In
-patient silence they must await Ramona's action; must bear
-whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to inflict on the family
-which had sheltered her from her infancy till now.
-
-The details of the "nothing" she proposed to do, slowly arranged
-themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in
-Ramona's position in the house. She should come and go as freely
-as ever; no watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up
-and sit down with them, as before; there should be not a word, or
-act, that Felipe's sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any
-provocation to Ramona to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should
-be made to feel, every moment of every hour, that she was in
-disgrace; that she was with them, but not of them; that she had
-chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it. How this was to
-be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but she knew
-very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this
-would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little
-did she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for
-Alessandro, that she might be in this manner brought to see the
-enormity of the offence she would commit if she persisted in her
-purpose. And if she did perceive this, confess her wrong, and give
-up the marriage,-- the Senora grew almost generous and tolerant in
-her thoughts as she contemplated this contingency,-- if she did thus
-humble herself and return to her rightful allegiance to the Moreno
-house, the Senora would forgive her, and would do more for her
-than she had ever hitherto done. She would take her to Los
-Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more of the
-world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come
-about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should
-see that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any
-way, if Ramona herself would behave properly.
-
-Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before
-supper, and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili
-which was drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not
-avoid showing it both in her voice and look.
-
-The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of
-having done so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the
-hot sun, the turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have
-spoken to Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what
-Ramona at first thought; but before the sentences were finished,
-she had detected in the Senora's eye and tone the weapons which
-were to be employed against her. The emotion of half-grateful
-wonder with which she had heard the first words changed quickly
-to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and she said to
-herself: "That's the way she is going to break me down, she thinks!
-But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the
-minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him." This train of
-thought in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora
-saw it, and hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No
-hope of surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice.
-
-Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She
-had overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his
-mother and Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better
-of her discretion as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she
-narrowly escaped being caught, having had barely time to begin
-her feint of sweeping the passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the
-door wide open, came out, after her final reply to the Senora, the
-words of which Margarita had distinctly heard: "God will punish
-you."
-
-"Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?" ejaculated
-Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed
-by, not even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following
-Ramona, saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in
-it, as she called, "How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way
-at this hour of the day, Margarita?"
-
-It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the
-quick lie which she instantaneously told. "There was early
-breakfast, Senora, to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting
-off in haste, and my mother was not up, so I had it to cook."
-
-As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She
-changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita
-peering about among the willows while he was talking with
-Alessandro at the sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a
-moment and speak to her as he rode past,-- only for a moment;
-then, pricking his horse sharply, he had galloped off down the
-valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had at Margarita's hands,
-or any other's, that morning. What could have been Margarita's
-motive for telling this lie?
-
-But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself
-long with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the
-first thing which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself
-from the Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the
-truth, only there was added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A
-slight undercurrent of jealous antagonism towards him had begun
-to grow up among the servants of late; fostered, if not originated,
-by Margarita's sharp sayings as to his being admitted to such
-strange intimacy with the family.
-
-While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his
-music, there was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro
-came and went as a physician might. But after Felipe had
-recovered, why should this freedom and intimacy continue? More
-than once there had been sullen mutterings of this kind on the
-north veranda, when all the laborers and servants were gathered
-there of an evening, Alessandro alone being absent from the group,
-and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming from the south
-veranda, where the family sat.
-
-"It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and
-then," Juan Canito would grumble; "but the lad's chary enough of
-his bow on this side the house."
-
-"Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!" Margarita would
-reply; "'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but
-not always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder,
-besides fiddling!" and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up
-in an expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge,
-well fitted to draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of
-which, however, would she answer. She knew better than to
-slander the Senorita Ramona, or to say a word even reflecting
-upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman there would have
-borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came among
-them as a toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her
-now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,--
-nursed them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their
-saints'-days. To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed
-what she knew, and what she suspected; and old Marda, frightened
-at the bare pronouncing of such words, had terrified Margarita into
-the solemnest of promises never, under any circumstances
-whatever, to say such things to any other member of the family.
-Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed that
-Margarita's jealousy had imagined all.
-
-"And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour,
-and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you
-blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad,
-Margarita!"
-
-When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora
-had just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and
-shoved her into her room and locked the door, and that it was
-because she had caught her with Alessandro at the washing-stones,
-Marda first crossed herself in sheer mechanical fashion at the
-shock of the story, and then cuffed Margarita's ears for telling her.
-
-"I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again!
-Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this
-roof, and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're
-out of your senses, child!" she said, all the time gazing fearfully
-towards the room.
-
-"You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not," retorted
-Margarita, and ran back to the dining-room. And after the
-dining-room door was shut, and the unhappy pretence of a supper
-had begun, old Marda had herself crept softly to the Senorita's door
-and listened, and heard Ramona sobbing as if her heart would
-break. Then she knew that what Margarita had said must be true,
-and her faithful soul was in sore straits what to think. The Senorita
-misdemean herself! Never! Whatever happened, it was not that!
-There was some horrible mistake somewhere. Kneeling at the
-keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, "Oh, my lamb, what
-is it?" But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too great
-of remaining; so scrambling up with difficulty from her rheumatic
-knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in
-the dark as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence,
-crosser than ever to her daughter. All the next day she watched for
-herself, and could not but see that all appearances bore out
-Margarita's statements. Alessandro's sudden departure had been a
-tremendous corroboration of the story. Not one of the men had had
-an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, both alike astonished; no word
-left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe had said carelessly to Juan
-Can, after breakfast: "You'll have to look after things yourself for a
-few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to Temecula."
-
-"For a few days!" exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this
-was repeated to her. "That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen
-here again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south
-veranda, I wager you."
-
-But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was
-heard, as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary
-voice, "Are you ready for supper, Ramona?" and Ramona was seen
-to come out and walk by the Senora's side to the dining-room;
-silent, to be sure,-- but then that was no strange thing, the Senorita
-always was more silent in the Senora's presence,-- when Marda,
-standing in the court-yard, feigning to be feeding her chickens, but
-keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, saw this, she was
-relieved, and thought: "It's only a dispute there has been. There
-will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our affair. All
-is settled now."
-
-And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them
-all coming in as usual,-- the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,-- no change,
-even to her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised
-than she had been for many a day; and began to think again, as she
-had more than once since this tragedy began, that she must have
-dreamed much that she remembered.
-
-But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its
-complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results
-attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the
-expenditure put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing
-proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,-- "blind as a bat,"
-for instance. It would be safe to say that there cannot be found in
-the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own
-range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of
-human beings are in the bosoms of their families. Tempers strain
-and recover, hearts break and heal, strength falters, fails, and
-comes near to giving way altogether, every day, without being
-noted by the closest lookers-on.
-
-Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a
-storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so
-resumed the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder
-observer and reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for
-doubting if any serious disaster could have occurred to any one.
-Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual fashion, smoking his
-cigarettes, or lay on his bed in the veranda, dozing. The Senora
-went her usual rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to every
-one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with her hands folded,
-gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied herself with her
-usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers before all the
-Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had
-been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the
-chapel. It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly
-done. As she held up the frame in which it was stretched, and
-looked at the delicate tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been
-with a mingled feeling of interest and hopelessness that she had for
-months been at work on it, often saying to herself, "She won't care
-much for it, beautiful as it is, just because I did it; but Father
-Salvierderra will be pleased when he sees it."
-
-Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: "She
-will never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way
-get it to Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give
-it to him. I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never
-use it, and it would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with
-me." But as she thought these things, her face was unruffled. A
-strange composure had settled on Ramona. "Only four days; only
-four days; I can bear anything for four days!" these words were
-coming and going in her mind like refrains of songs which haunt
-one's memory and will not be still. She saw that Felipe looked
-anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always with
-a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did not intend that
-she and Felipe should have any private conversation; but that did
-not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be said.
-Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for
-the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of
-the Senora's anger should have spent itself.
-
-After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had
-gone, had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He
-would come back prepared to take her with him. How, or where,
-she did not know; but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she
-would not even bid the Senora good-by; she wondered how that
-would arrange itself, and how far Alessandro would have to take
-her, to find a priest to marry them. It was a terrible thing to have to
-do, to go out of a home in such a way: no wedding -- no wedding
-clothes -- no friends -- to go unmarried, and journey to a priest's
-house, to have the ceremony performed; "but it is not my fault,"
-said Ramona to herself; "it is hers. She drives me to do it. If it is
-wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly
-come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we
-could go to him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be
-afraid to ride so far; we could do it in two days." The more
-Ramona thought of this, the more it appeared to her the natural
-thing for them to do. "He will be on our side, I know he will," she
-thought. "He always liked Alessandro, and he loves me."
-
-It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the
-girl's mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart
-was too full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never
-been Ramona's habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As
-from her childhood up she had accepted the fact of the Senora's
-coldness toward her, so now she accepted her injustice and
-opposition as part of the nature of things, and not to be altered.
-
-During all these hours, during the coming and going of these
-crowds of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's
-heart, all that there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm,
-quiet girl, sitting on the veranda, diligently working at her
-lace-frame. Even Felipe was deceived by her calmness, and
-wondered what it meant,-- if it could be that she was undergoing
-the change that his mother had thought possible, and designated as
-coming "to her senses." Even Felipe did not know the steadfast
-fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond had
-grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes
-wondered of what this bond had been made. He had himself seen
-the greater part of their intercourse with each other; nothing could
-have been farther removed from anything like love-making. There
-had been no crisis of incident, or marked moments of experience
-such as in Felipe's imaginations of love were essential to the
-fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on the part of
-those who have never felt love's true bonds. Once in those chains,
-one perceives that they are not of the sort full forged in a day. They
-are made as the great iron cables are made, on which bridges are
-swung across the widest water-channels,-- not of single huge rods,
-or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look at, but of
-myriads of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so frail, it
-would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, hundreds
-of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made the
-mighty cables, which do not any more swerve from their place in
-the air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread
-of two cities, than the solid earth swerves under the same ceaseless
-weight and jar. Such cables do not break.
-
-Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus
-loved Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been
-a sudden adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the
-beginning, simply a response; but now it was as strong a love as
-his,-- as strong, and as unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words
-had been like a forcing-house air to it, and the sudden knowledge
-of the fact of her own Indian descent seemed to her like a
-revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny called her to
-walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy with
-which Alessandro would hear this,-- the joy and the surprise. She
-imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and
-phrase in which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as
-to the best; as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to
-her. She would tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her
-first word of greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble
-and embarrassment then. She would wait till they were far away,
-till they were alone, in the wilderness; and then she would turn to
-him, and say, "Alessandro, my people are your people!" Or she
-would wait, and keep her secret until she had reached Temecula,
-and they had begun their life there, and Alessandro had been
-astonished to see how readily and kindly she took to all the ways
-of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed some such
-emotion, she would quietly say, "But I too am an Indian,
-Alessandro!"
-
-Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart
-beat with happiness as she dreamed them.
-
-XIV
-
-THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a
-word had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the
-presence of the Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it
-had not been so cruel a thing, the various and devious methods by
-which the Senora had brought this about. Felipe, oddly enough,
-was more restive under it than Ramona. She had her dreams. He
-had nothing but his restless consciousness that he had not done for
-her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have been disloyal;
-this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning or
-expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of
-unrest, of which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her
-vigilance.
-
-Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night,
-through her window. But the August heats were fierce now;
-everybody slept with wide-open windows; the Senora was always
-wakeful; if she should chance to hear him thus holding secret
-converse with Ramona, it would indeed make bad matters worse.
-Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first sound of his
-footsteps on the veranda floor, "My son, are you ill? Can I do
-anything?" came from the Senora's window. She had not been
-asleep at all. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to
-try that plan again; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon,
-tossing about with sheer impatience at his baffled purpose.
-Ramona sat at the foot of the bed, taking the last stitches in the
-nearly completed altar-cloth. The Senora sat in her usual seat,
-dozing, with her head thrown back. It was very hot; a sultry
-south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been blowing all day,
-and every living creature was more or less prostrated by it.
-
-As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe.
-Taking out a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he
-began rapidly writing. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he
-made a sign to her that it was for her. She glanced apprehensively
-at the Senora. She was asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note,
-and concealing it in his hand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's
-window, Ramona terrifiedly watching him; the sound of Felipe's
-steps roused the Senora, who sat up instantly, and gazed about her
-with that indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope
-they have not been asleep, but know they have. "Have I been
-asleep?" she asked.
-
-"About one minute, mother," answered Felipe, who was leaning, as
-he spoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind
-him. Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning
-idly, he said, "This heat is intolerable!" Then he sauntered leisurely
-down the veranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself
-on the bench under the trellis there.
-
-The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and
-cold with fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What
-if the Senora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look
-at her. But fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora
-was fast dozing off again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking
-distance of Ramona. As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona
-rose to go. The Senora opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the
-threshold of the door; she was going into the house. Good! Still
-farther away from Felipe.
-
-"Are you going to your room, Ramona?" said the Senor .
-
-"I was," replied Ramona, alarmed. "Did you want me here?"
-
-"No," said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again.
-
-In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands.
-
-"Dear Ramona," Felipe had written, "I am distracted because I
-cannot speak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to
-explain things to you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be
-unhappy. Alessandro will surely be back in four days. I want to
-help you all I can, but you saw I could not do much. Nobody will
-hinder your doing what you please; but, dear, I wish you would not
-go away from us!"
-
-Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into
-her bosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window,
-and seeing that the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured
-to write a reply to Felipe, though when she would find a safe
-opportunity to give it to him, there was no telling. "Thank you,
-dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I am not unhappy. I understand all
-about it. But I must go away as soon as Alessandro comes." Hiding
-this also safe in her bosom, she went back to the veranda. Felipe
-rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly bold,
-stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tired eyes
-of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes;
-Ramona was at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the
-garden. He nodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on
-his lips. All was well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost
-her more than she would ever know. This one secret interchange
-between Felipe and Ramona then, thus making, as it were,
-common cause with each other as against her, and in fear of her,
-was a step never to be recalled,-- a step whose significance could
-scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and small, are apt to
-overlook such possibilities as this; to forget the momentousness
-which the most trivial incident may assume when forced into false
-proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats out
-of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except close
-students of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do
-this, the world cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters
-more innocent than the tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia
-that stands branded in men's thoughts, and not Siberia.
-
-The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona
-was living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to
-know how little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if
-she had ever felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the
-former chill and this were many degrees, and except for her new
-life, and new love, and hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona
-could not have borne it for a day.
-
-The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others
-had. All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for,
-knowing what Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth,
-looked for him on the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet
-one, and would have made the journey with ease in half the time.
-But Felipe reflected that there might be many things for
-Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He would doubtless return
-prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case that proved the
-only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as his fancy dwelt
-on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the Temecula
-village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was
-monstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible
-that a girl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment
-contemplate leading the life of a poor laboring man's wife. He
-could not conceive of love's making one undertake any such life.
-Felipe had much to learn of love. Night came; no Alessandro. Till
-the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, watching the willows.
-When she could no longer see, she listened. The Senora, noting all,
-also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stage of affairs, but she
-would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve from the
-line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full of the
-moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill,
-and flooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just
-as it had done on that first night when Alessandro watched with
-Felipe on the veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the
-window-panes, and gazed out into the garden. At each flickering,
-motion of the shadows she saw the form of a man approaching.
-Again and again she saw it. Again and again the breeze died, and
-the shadow ceased. It was near morning before, weary, sad, she
-crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious eyes, she
-still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossed her
-mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said.
-In her childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly
-as she had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not
-come, unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her,
-and she asked herself continually, "Will he ever come! They sent
-him away; perhaps he will be too proud to come back!" Then faith
-would return, and saying to herself, "He would never, never
-forsake me; he knows I have no one in the whole world but him;
-he knows how I love him," she would regain composure, and
-remind herself of the many detentions which might have prevented
-his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she was heavy at
-heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were sad
-to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also
-was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The
-girl might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear.
-But why should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It
-was a bad symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was,
-indeed, trouble ahead,-- of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not
-pictured.
-
-Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One
-week now since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped
-Felipe's hand, and said: "You will tell the Senorita; you will make
-sure that she understands why I go; and in four days I will be
-back." One week, and he had not come. The three who were
-watching and wondering looked covertly into each other's faces,
-each longing to know what the others thought.
-
-Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea
-had taken possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth
-and seventh days she had walked each afternoon far down the river
-road, by which he would be sure to come; down the meadows, and
-by the cross-cut, out to the highway; at each step straining her
-tearful eyes into the distance,-- the cruel, blank, silent distance.
-She had come back after dark, whiter and more wan than she went
-out. As she sat at the supper-table, silent, making no feint of
-eating, only drinking glass after glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even
-Margarita pitied her. But the Senora did not. She thought the best
-thing which could happen, would be that the Indian should never
-come back. Ramona would recover from it in a little while; the
-mortification would be the worst thing, but even that, time would
-heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pride than to let her
-wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would have died
-before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a
-whole household to see and gossip about.
-
-On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid
-Felipe, as he was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in
-the garden, and saw them; but Ramona did not care. "Felipe!" she
-cried, "I must, I must speak to you! Do you think Alessandro is
-dead? What else could keep him from coming?" Her lips were dry,
-her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. A few more days of this, and
-she would be in a brain fever, Felipe thought, as he looked
-compassionately at her.
-
-"Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!" he replied. "A thousand
-things might have kept him."
-
-"Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!" said Ramona. "I
-know he is dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?"
-
-The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last
-words. Looking toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if
-she had not been within sight or hearing, the Senora said, "It seems
-to me that would not be quite consistent with dignity. How does it
-strike you, Felipe' If you thought best, we might spare a man as
-soon as the vintage is done, I suppose."
-
-Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week.
-There were several vineyards yet which had not been touched;
-every hand on the place was hard at work, picking the grapes,
-treading them out in tubs, emptying the juice into stretched
-raw-hides swung from cross-beams in a long shed. In the willow
-copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it took one man to watch it;
-this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons of his own he liked
-best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer tread grapes in
-the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work at the still.
-"No ill but has its good," he thought sometimes, as he lay
-comfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after
-day, and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy.
-
-As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close
-to Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential
-tone, nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had
-vanished: "She looks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do.
-We surely cannot send to summon back a lover we do not wish her
-to marry, can we? It is very perplexing. Most unfortunate, every
-way. What do you think, my son?" There was almost a diabolical
-art in the manner in which the Senora could, by a single phrase or
-question, plant in a person's mind the precise idea she wished him
-to think he had originated himself.
-
-"No; of course we can't send for him," replied Felipe, angrily;
-"unless it is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot
-on the place. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks
-frighten me. I believe she will die."
-
-"I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place," said
-the Senora, gently, "for I feel that I owe your life to him, my
-Felipe; and he is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not
-fear her dying, She may be ill; but people do not die of love like
-hers for Alessandro."
-
-"Of what kind do they die, mother?" asked Felipe, impatiently.
-
-The Senora looked reproachfully at him. "Not often of any," she
-said; "but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every
-way beneath them, in position, in education, in all points which are
-essential to congeniality of tastes or association of life."
-
-The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were
-discussing an abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this,
-Felipe for the moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were
-really a disgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved
-Alessandro. It could not be gainsaid that there was this gulf, of
-which she spoke. Alessandro was undeniably Ramona's inferior in
-position, education, in all the external matters of life; but in nature,
-in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro was no man's inferior in
-these; and in capacity to love,-- Felipe sometimes wondered
-whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. This
-thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed
-he had, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro
-gazed at Ramona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity
-of the present dilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his
-mother's position now. Send a messenger to ask why Alessandro
-did not return! Not even if he had been an accepted and publicly
-recognized lover, would Felipe do that! Ramona ought to have
-more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And when Felipe,
-later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. He
-said it as gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first
-comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her
-faith, how could she?
-
-When she did understand, she said slowly: "You mean that it will
-not do to send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will
-look as if I wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?"
-and she fixed her eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not
-fathom.
-
-"Yes, dear," he answered, "something like that, though you put it
-harshly."
-
-"Is it not true," she persisted, "that is what you mean?"
-
-Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was.
-
-Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still
-more slowly, "If you feel like that, we had better never talk about
-Alessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should
-know, as I do, that nothing but. his being dead would keep him
-from coming back. Thanks, dear Felipe;" and after this she did not
-speak again of Alessandro.
-
-Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora
-wondered if Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go
-to Temecula. Almost even the Senora relented, as she looked into
-the girl's white and wasted face, as she sat silent, her hands folded
-in her lap, her eyes fixed on the willows. The altar-cloth was done,
-folded and laid away. It would never hang in the Moreno chapel. It
-was promised, in Ramona's mind, to Father Salvierderra. She had
-resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old man, could walk all the
-way between Santa Barbara and their home, she could surely do
-the same. She would not lose the way. There were not many roads;
-she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had been so
-terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had
-threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only
-shelter she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the
-convent at San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father
-to let her go there, and she would spend the rest of her life in
-prayer, and in teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat
-revolving this plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the
-future, that she lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged,
-old. She saw the procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the
-children by the hand; herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking
-between two of the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon
-as she grew a little stronger, she would set off on her journey to the
-Father; she could not go just yet, she was too weak; her feet
-trembled if she did but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessandro
-was dead; there could be no doubt of that. He was buried in that
-little walled graveyard of which he had told her. Sometimes she
-thought she would try to go there and see his grave, perhaps see his
-father; if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man would be
-glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work might lie there, among
-Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had not courage for
-it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,-- the sound of the
-Church's prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent
-was the best.
-
-She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was
-not, for she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out
-on the river road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day
-when she could not go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on
-her bed. To the Senora, who asked frigidly if she were ill, she
-answered: "No, Senora, I do not think I am ill, I have no pain, but I
-cannot get up. I shall be better to-morrow."
-
-"I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the Senora said; and
-sent her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy
-broke down at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it
-looked so much thinner and sharper there than it had when she was
-sitting up. "Oh, Senorita! Senorita!" she cried, in a tone of poignant
-grief, "are you going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!"
-
-"I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied Ramona, raising
-herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face as
-she took the broth from her hands. "I do not know why you ask me
-to forgive you."
-
-Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of
-weeping. "Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive
-me!"
-
-"No, I know nothing," replied Ramona; "but if you know anything,
-it is all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going
-away," she added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told
-her that she could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead,
-Margarita would no longer be her enemy, and Margarita could
-perhaps help her. "I am going away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a
-little stronger. I am going to a convent; but the Senora does not
-know. You will not tell?"
-
-"No, Senorita!" whispered Margarita,-- thinking in her heart, "Yes,
-she is going away, but it will be with the angels." -- "No, Senorita,
-I will not tell. I will do anything you want me to."
-
-"Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I thought you would;"
-and she lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so
-much more like death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed
-faster than before, and she ran to her mother, sobbing out,
-"Mother, mother! the Senorita is ill to death. I am sure she is. She
-has taken to her bed; and she is as white as Senor Felipe was at the
-worst of the fever."
-
-"Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; "ay, she
-has wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I
-have seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death."
-
-"Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,-- hardly since that day;"
-and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not
-necessary to further define the day.
-
-"Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,"
-continued Margarita.
-
-"The saints grant it, then," said Marda, hotly, "if it is he has cost
-the Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all,
-that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up
-with whatever 'tis has gone wrong."
-
-"I could tell what it is," said Margarita, her old pertness coming
-uppermost for a moment; "but I've got no more to say, now the
-Senorita's lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to
-break your heart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees
-to her for all I've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's
-going to be with him before long; I know she is."
-
-"No," said the wiser, older Marda. "She is not so ill as you think.
-She is young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been
-that way myself. People are, when they're young."
-
-"I'm young!" retorted Margarita. "I've never been that way."
-
-"There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl," said Marda,
-significantly; "and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb
-when I was your age!"
-
-Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own
-child of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in
-Margarita's father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early
-married life, were perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making
-between the mother and daughter a barrier which even parental
-love was not always strong enough to surmount. And, as was
-inevitable, this antagonism was constantly leading to things which
-seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and ill-founded.
-
-"She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do," thought
-Margarita. "I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's
-told me; never,-- not till after she's gone."
-
-A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated
-herself on the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it.
-What if it were not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the
-Senorita meant to go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been
-that, she would have gone with him in the outset. Nobody who was
-plotting to run away with a lover ever wore such a look as the
-Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the thought; yet it left its
-trace. She would be more observant for having had it; her
-resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet so strong
-that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion were to
-be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been
-deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so,
-and she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp
-emotion of displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the
-Senorita. Now that the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy,
-prostrated, she had no room for anything but pity for her; but let
-Alessandro come on the stage again, and all would be changed.
-The old hostility would return. It was but a dubious sort of ally,
-after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly secured in Margarita.
-She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds.
-
-It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure.
-Ramona had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed.
-She herself began to think she must be going to die. Her mind
-seemed to be vacant of all thought. She did not even sorrow for
-Alessandro's death; she seemed torpid, body and soul. Such
-prostrations as these are Nature's enforced rests. It is often only by
-help of them that our bodies tide over crises, strains, in which, if
-we continued to battle, we should be slain.
-
-As Ramona lay half unconscious,-- neither awake nor yet asleep,--
-on this evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression
-produced upon her; it was not sound, it was not sight. She was
-alone; the house was still as death; the warm September twilight
-silence reigned outside, She sat up in her bed, intent -- half
-alarmed -- half glad -- bewildered -- alive. What had happened?
-Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fast deepening;
-not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered senses and
-faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked
-around the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped
-her hands, and leaped from the bed. "Alessandro is not dead!" she
-said aloud; and she laughed hysterically. "He is not dead!" she
-repeated. "He is not dead! He is somewhere near!"
-
-With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After
-the first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did
-not tremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. "Oh, miracle!" she
-thought, as she hastened down the garden-walk; "I am well again!
-Alessandro is near!" So vivid was the impression, that when she
-reached the willows and found the spot silent, vacant, as when she
-had last sat there, hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a
-revulsion of disappointment. "Not here!" she cried; "not here!" and
-a swift fear shook her. "Am I mad? Is it this way, perhaps, people
-lose their senses, when they are as I have been!"
-
-But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No!
-this was no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of
-sense; a revelation. Alessandro was near.
-
-Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the
-keener grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In
-her present mood she would have walked on and on, even to
-Temecula itself, sure that she was at each step drawing nearer to
-Alessandro.
-
-As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a
-quarter of a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man,
-standing, leaning against one of the trees. She halted. It could not
-be Alessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near
-the house where he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was
-late to meet a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely
-still; so still that, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied
-it might be an optical illusion. She advanced a few steps,
-hesitatingly, then stopped. As she did so, the man advanced a few
-steps, then stopped. As he came out from the shadows of the trees,
-she saw that he was of Alessandro's height. She quickened her
-steps, then suddenly stopped again. What did this mean? It could
-not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony of suspense.
-An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; but terror
-held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, she
-turned to walk back to the house, saying, "I must not run the risk of
-its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come."
-
-But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction.
-Slower and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again.
-The man had returned to his former place, and stood as at first,
-leaning against the tree.
-
-"It may be a messenger from him," she said; "a messenger who has
-been told not to come to the house until after dark."
-
-Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few
-moments more brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It
-was -- yes, it was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was
-turned partially away, his head resting against the tree; he must be
-ill. Ramona flew, rather than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro
-had heard the light steps, turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry,
-bounded forward, and they were clasped in each other's arms
-before they had looked in each other's faces. Ramona spoke first.
-Disengaging herself gently, and looking up, she began:
-"Alessandro --" But at the first sight of his face she shrieked. Was
-this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man, who
-gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! "O God,"
-cried Ramona, "You have been ill! you are ill! My God,
-Alessandro, what is it?"
-
-Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to
-collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes
-fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively
-holding both her hands in his.
-
-"Senorita," he said, "my Senorita!" Then he stopped. His tongue
-seemed to refuse him utterance; and this voice,-- this strange, hard,
-unresonant voice,-- whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.
-
-"My Senorita," he began again, "I could not go without one sight of
-your face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the
-house. If you had not come, I should have gone back without
-seeing you."
-
-Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they
-mean? Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.
-
-"Heavens, Senorita!" he cried, "have you not heard? Do you not
-know what has happened?"
-
-"I know nothing, love," answered Ramona. "I have heard nothing
-since you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead;
-but to-night something told me that you were near, and I came to
-meet you."
-
-At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his
-arms around her again. As she said "love," his whole frame shook
-with emotion.
-
-"My Senorita!" he whispered, "my Senorita! how shall I tell you!
-How shall I tell you!"
-
-"What is there to tell, Alessandro?" she said. "I am afraid of
-nothing, now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought."
-
-But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last,
-straining her closer to his breast, he cried: "Dearest Senorita! I feel
-as if I should die when I tell you,-- I have no home; my father is
-dead; my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar
-now, Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles
-convent!" As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting
-himself against the tree, added: "I am not strong, Senorita; we have
-been starving."
-
-Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see
-its look of incredulous horror. He misread it.
-
-"I only came to look at you once more," he continued. "I will go
-now. May the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the
-Virgin sent you to me to-night. I should never have seen your face
-if you had not come."
-
-While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom.
-Lifting it now, she said, "Did you mean to leave me to think you
-were dead, Alessandro?"
-
-"I thought that the news about our village must have reached you,"
-he said, "and that you would know I had no home, and could not
-come, to seem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it
-was little enough I had before to give you! I don't know how I
-dared to believe that you could come to be with me; but I loved
-you so much, I had thought of many things I could do; and --"
-lowering his voice and speaking almost sullenly -- "it is the saints,
-I believe, who have punished me thus for having resolved to leave
-my people, and take all I had for myself and you. Now they have
-left me nothing;" and he groaned.
-
-"Who?" cried Ramona. "Was there a battle? Was your father
-killed?" She was trembling with horror.
-
-"No," answered Alessandro. "There was no battle. There would
-have been, if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to
-resist. He said it would only make it worse for us in the end. The
-sheriff, too, he begged me to let it all go on peaceably, and help
-him keep the people quiet. He felt terribly to have to do it. It was
-Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We had often worked for him on
-his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you recollect, Senorita, I
-told you about him,-- how fair he always was, and kind too? He
-has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles and
-miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost,
-than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order
-his men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there
-would be trouble; and well they might, -- turning a whole village
-full of men and women and children out of their houses, and
-driving them off like foxes. If it had been any man but Mr.
-Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead, if I had hung for it; but I
-knew if he thought we must go, there was no help for us."
-
-"But, Alessandro," interrupted Ramona, "I can't understand. Who
-was it made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?"
-
-"I don't know who they are," Alessandro replied, his voice full of
-anger and scorn. "They're Americans -- eight or ten of them. They
-all got together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco;
-and it was decided in the court that they owned all our land. That
-was all Mr. Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said,
-and nobody could go against the law."
-
-"Oh," said Ramona, "that's the way the Americans took so much of
-the Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San
-Francisco; and they decided that miles and miles of her land,
-which the General had always had, was not hers at all. They said it
-belonged to the United States Government."
-
-"They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!" cried
-Alessandro. "They are going to steal all the land in this country; we
-might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them
-have it. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it
-coming; but I did not believe him. I did not think men could be so
-wicked; but he was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only
-thing I have to be thankful for now. One day I thought he was
-going to get well, and I prayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did
-not want him to live. He never knew anything clear after they took
-him out of his house. That was before I got there. I found him
-sitting on the ground outside. They said it was the sun that had
-turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his heart breaking in his
-bosom. He would not come out of his house, and the men lifted
-him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on the ground;
-and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when he saw
-them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out,
-'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said it
-was a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobody
-could stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling.
-God! Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I
-got there, some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head,
-to keep the sun off. He did not call any more, only for water,
-water. That was what made them think the sun had done it. They
-did all they could; but it was such a dreadful time, nobody could
-do much; the sheriff's men were in great hurry; they gave no time.
-They said the people must all be off in two days. Everybody was
-running hither and thither. Everything out of the houses in piles on
-the ground. The people took all the roofs off their houses too. They
-were made of the tule reeds; so they would do again. Oh, Senorita,
-don't ask me to tell you any more! It is like death. I can't!"
-
-Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What
-was love, in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man
-stricken like this'
-
-"Don't weep, Senorita," said Alessandro, drearily. "Tears kill one,
-and do no good."
-
-"How long did your father live?" asked Ramona, clasping her arms
-closer around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and
-Ramona, yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one
-and he the one to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom,
-caressing him as if he had been hers for years. Nothing could have
-so clearly shown his enfeebled and benumbed condition, as the
-manner in which he received these caresses, which once would
-have made him beside himself with joy. He leaned against her
-breast as a child might.
-
-"He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I
-came away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor
-beast, is almost weaker than I. The Americans took my horse,"
-Alessandro said.
-
-"Took your horse!" cried Ramona, aghast. "Is that the law, too?"
-
-"So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must
-take enough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the
-suit up in San Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they
-were worth, I thought; but they said cattle were selling very low
-now. There were not enough in all the village to pay it, so we had
-to make it up in horses; and they took mine. I was not there the day
-they drove the cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's
-head before any American should ever have had him to ride. But I
-was over in Pachanga with my father. He would not stir a step for
-anybody but me; so I led him all the way; and then after he got
-there he was so ill I never left him a minute. He did not know me
-any more, nor know anything that had happened. I built a little hut
-of tule, and he lay on the ground till he died. When I put him in his
-grave, I was glad."
-
-"In Temecula?" asked Ramona.
-
-"In Temecula." exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. "You don't seem to
-understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to
-our graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to
-be hanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in
-were a rough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they
-saw him trespassing on their property."
-
-"Their property!" ejaculated Ramona.
-
-"Yes; it is theirs," said Alessandro, doggedly. "That is the law.
-They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father
-always said,-- if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But
-they never did in those days. Nobody had papers. The American
-law is different."
-
-"It's a law of thieves!" cried Ramona.
-
-"Yes, and of murderers too," said Alessandro. "Don't you call my
-father murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O
-Senorita, my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who
-went for my violin? But, my beloved one, I am killing you with
-these terrible things! I will speak no more."
-
-"No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do
-not share. Tell me about Jose," cried Ramona, breathlessly.
-
-"Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year
-ago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was
-the only other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too,
-and that splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He
-was at home when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were
-away, grapepicking. That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for
-his wife had a little baby only a few weeks old, and the child
-seemed sickly and not like to live, and Jose would not leave it.
-Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff riding into the village,
-and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose knew what it
-meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my father,
-and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one minute,
-and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit like
-that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would
-die. But he did not. They picked him up, and presently he was
-better; and Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the
-moving the first day as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a
-hand. They sat on the ground with the women, and covered up
-their faces, and would not see. But Jose worked; and, Senorita, one
-of the first things he did, was to run with my father's violin to the
-store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her to hide it for us; Jose knew it
-was worth money. But before noon the second day he had another
-fit, and died in it,-- died right in his own door, carrying out some of
-the things; and after Carmena -- that's his wife's name -- saw he
-was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back and forth on the
-ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to Pachanga at
-the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession of us."
-
-"Where is Pachanga?" asked Ramona.
-
-"About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told the
-people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to
-anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't
-any water; that's the worst of it."
-
-"No water!" cried Ramona.
-
-"No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well
-by it as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that
-is all. I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby
-for her on one arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but
-the baby cried, so she took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live
-the day out; but it did live till the morning of the day my father
-died. Just a few hours before he died, Carmena came along with
-the baby rolled up in her shawl, and sat down by me on the ground,
-and did not speak. When I said, 'How is the little one?' she opened
-her shawl and showed it to me, dead. 'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is
-good! My father is dying too. We will bury them together.' So she
-sat by me all that morning, and at night she helped me dig the
-graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's breast; but she said,
-no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it herself; and we put
-them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She was sitting
-there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two little
-trees with the boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves. So
-that is the way our new graveyard was begun,-- my father and the
-little baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the
-blessed fortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!"
-
-"Where did they bury Jose?" gasped Ramona.
-
-"In Temecula," said Alessandro. "Mr. Rothsaker made two of his
-men dig a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena
-will go at night and bring his body away. I would! But, my
-Senorita, it is very dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think
-you must not stay longer. Can I go as far as the brook with you,
-safely, without being seen? The saints bless you, beloved, for
-coming. I could not have lived, I think, without one more sight of
-your face;" and, springing to his feet, Alessandro stood waiting for
-Ramona to move. She remained still. She was in a sore strait. Her
-heart held but one impulse, one desire,-- to go with Alessandro;
-nothing was apparently farther from his thoughts than this. Could
-she offer to go? Should she risk laying a burden on him greater
-than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as he said, would
-his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herself strong and
-able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knew nothing of,
-but she felt no fear of them.
-
-"Alessandro!" she said, in a tone which startled him.
-
-"My Senorita!" he said tenderly.
-
-"You have never once called me Ramona."
-
-"I cannot, Senorita!" he replied.
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'" he added faintly;
-"but not often. If I think of you by any other name than as my
-Senorita, it is usually by a name you never heard."
-
-"What is it?" exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.
-
-"An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are
-like,-- the wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was
-what I thought my people would have called you, if you had come
-to dwell among us. It is a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like
-you."
-
-Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him,
-she laid both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands,
-and said: "Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian.
-I belong to your people."
-
-Alessandro's silence astonished her. "You are surprised," she said.
-"I thought you would be glad."
-
-"The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita," he said. "I
-knew it!"
-
-"How?" cried Ramona. "And you never told me, Alessandro!"
-
-"How could I?" he replied. "I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told
-me."
-
-"Juan Canito!" said Ramona, musingly. "How could he have
-known?" Then in a few rapid words she told Alessandro all that
-the Senora had told her. "Is that what Juan Can said?" she asked.
-
-"All except the father's name," stammered Alessandro.
-
-"Who did he say was my father?" she asked.
-
-Alessandro was silent.
-
-"It matters not," said Ramona. "He was wrong. The Senora, of
-course, knew. He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna,
-to whom he gave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my
-mother than of my father."
-
-"Yes, you have, my Senorita," replied Alessandro, tenderly. "After
-I knew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to
-me like the faces of my own people,"
-
-"Are you not glad, Alessandro?"
-
-"Yes, my Senorita."
-
-What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and
-without premeditation, without resolve, almost without
-consciousness of what she was doing, she flung herself on
-Alessandro's breast, and cried: "Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!
-take me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me
-again!"
-
-XV
-
-ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a
-tightening of his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till
-it was almost pain; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he
-did not speak. Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he
-laid it on his forehead reverently, and said, in a voice which was so
-husky and trembling she could barely understand his words: "My
-Senorita knows that my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the
-fire or into the sea, and neither the fire nor the sea would frighten
-me; they would but make me glad for her sake. But I cannot take
-my Senorita's life to throw it away. She is tender; she would die;
-she cannot lie on the earth for a bed, and have no food to eat. My
-Senorita does not know what she says."
-
-His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were
-speaking of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud
-to God rather than speaking to her, merely calmed and
-strengthened, did not deter Ramona. "I am strong; I can work too,
-Alessandro. You do not know. We can both work. I am not afraid
-to lie on the earth; and God will give us food," she said.
-
-"That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode
-away that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you
-were not afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least
-always be food, and I could make it that you should never suffer;
-but, Senorita, the saints are displeased. They do not pray for us any
-more. It is as my father said, they have forsaken us. These
-Americans will destroy us all. I do not know but they will
-presently begin to shoot us and poison us, to get us all out of the
-country, as they do the rabbits and the gophers; it would not be any
-worse than what they have done. Would not you rather be dead,
-Senorita, than be as I am to-day?"
-
-Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to
-share his lot. "Alessandro," she interrupted, "there are many men
-among your people who have wives, are there not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita!" replied Alessandro, wonderingly.
-
-"Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble
-has come?"
-
-"No, Senorita." still more wonderingly; "how could they?"
-
-"They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to
-make them happier, are they not?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita." Alessandro began to see whither these questions
-tended. It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which
-Ramona narrowed in her lines of interrogation.
-
-"Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?"
-
-"Very much, Senorita." A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro
-could not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's
-face; even her neck changed color as she asked her last question.
-"Do you think any one of them loves her husband more than I love
-you, Alessandro?"
-
-Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were
-done. Were not such words enough to make a dead man live?
-Almost; but not enough to make such a love as Alessandro's
-selfish. Alessandro was silent.
-
-"You know there is not one!" said Ramona, impetuously.
-
-"Oh, it is too much!" cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up
-wildly. Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring
-out breathless: "My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven,
-but I dare not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the
-life we must live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had
-been better if you had never seen me."
-
-"Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not
-come?" said Ramona. "I was going to run away from the Senora's
-house, all alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father
-Salvierderra, and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan
-Bautista; and that is what I will do now if you leave me!"
-
-"Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My
-beautiful Senorita in the convent! No, no!" cried Alessandro,
-greatly agitated.
-
-"Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set
-out to-morrow."
-
-Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she
-would do as she said. "Even that would not be so dreadful as to be
-hunted like a wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with
-me."
-
-"When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the
-convent would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I
-could do good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive,
-I could never have peace; not for one minute have peace,
-Alessandro! I would rather die, than not be where you are. Oh,
-Alessandro, take me with you!" 
-
-Alessandro was conquered. "I will take you, my most beloved
-Senorita," he said gravely,-- no lover's gladness in his tone, and his
-voice was hollow; "I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have
-mercy on you, even if they have forsaken me and my people!"
-
-"Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake
-any one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives
-long, Alessandro," cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his
-breast in solemn silence for a moment, as if registering a vow.
-
-Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate
-if any woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro.
-
-When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure,
-"Then you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?"
-
-"I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard
-you, my Ramona," replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast,
-and bowing his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes,
-and they were not tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his
-rapturous delight when he first saw Ramona bending over the
-brook under the willows he had said aloud, "My God! what shall I
-do!"
-
-It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now.
-Alessandro wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and
-if need be the Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare
-mention of it. "You do not know the Senora, Alessandro," she
-cried, "or you would never think of it. She has been terrible all this
-time. She hates me so that she would kill me if she dared. She
-pretends that she will do nothing to prevent my going away; but I
-believe at the last minute she would throw me in the well in the
-court-yard, rather than have me go with you."
-
-"I would never let her harm you," said Alessandro. "Neither would
-Senor Felipe."
-
-"She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,"
-answered Ramona. "She makes him of a hundred minds in a
-minute, and he can't help himself. Oh, I think she is in league with
-the fiends, Alessandro! Don't dare to come near the house; I will
-come here as soon as every one is asleep. We must go at once."
-
-Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he
-consented to wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She
-turned back twice to embrace him again. "Oh, my Alessandro,
-promise me that you will not stir from this place till I come," she
-said.
-
-"I will be here when you come," he said.
-
-"It will not be more than two hours," she said, "or three, at the
-utmost. It must be nine o'clock now."
-
-She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to
-leave the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He
-had something to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of
-Ramona. In her innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of
-Alessandro and of love, she had never seemed to consider how she
-would make this long journey. As Alessandro had ridden towards
-Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had pictured himself riding back
-on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's matchless little
-dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen short days ago; and as
-he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up and seen
-Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the
-wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants
-of a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio,
-who loved her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing
-him, had uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound
-to his side, and with gasps between his words told him. Alessandro
-could not remember the words, only that after them he set his
-teeth, and dropping the bridle, laid his head down between Benito's
-ears, and whispered to him; and Benito never stopped, but
-galloped on all that day, till he came into Temecula; and there
-Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and the wagons being loaded,
-and the people running about, the women and children wailing;
-and then they showed him the place where his father lay on the
-ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go, and
-that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And
-now here he was, under the willows,-- the same copse where he
-first halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark
-night, and Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and
-she was going back presently to go away with him,-- where! He
-had no home in the wide world to which to take her,-- and this
-poor beast he had ridden from Temecula, had it strength enough
-left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had himself walked more
-than half the distance, to spare the creature, and yet there had been
-good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too long starved
-to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had found
-refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses
-taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But
-Alessandro, even while his arms were around Ramona, had
-revolved in his mind a project he would not have dared to confide
-to her. If Baba, Ramona's own horse, was still in the corral,
-Alessandro could without difficulty lure him out. He thought it
-would be no sin. At any rate, if it were, it could not be avoided.
-The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had always been her
-own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he could run; in
-fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by Ramona,
-with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona
-could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had
-nearly as complete control over him; for it had been one of his
-greatest pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see
-Ramona, to caress and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved
-him next to his young mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all
-would be well. As soon as the sound of Ramona's footsteps had
-died away, Alessandro followed with quick but stealthy steps;
-keeping well down in the bottom, below the willows, he skirted
-the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the sheepfolds lay, and
-then turned up to approach the corral from the farther side. There
-was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They were all asleep.
-That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they slept; many
-a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice over
-their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,-- out and in
-without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny.
-leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible
-whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end
-of the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the
-group; and one of them turned and came a pace or two toward
-Alessandro.
-
-"I believe that is Baba himself," thought Alessandro; and he made
-another low sound. The horse quickened. his steps; then halted, as
-if he suspected some mischief.
-
-"Baba," whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well
-as any dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious
-creature seemed instinctively to know that here was an occasion
-for secrecy and caution. If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would
-whisper back; and it was little more than a whispered whinny
-which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the fence, and put his nose
-to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and giving soft
-whinnying sighs.
-
-"Hush! hush! Baba," whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking
-to a human being. "Hush!" and he proceeded cautiously to lift off
-the upper rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood
-instantly; and as soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over
-it and stood still by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails,
-smiling to himself, spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan
-Can's wonder in the morning as to how Baba had managed to get
-out of the corral.
-
-This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than
-Alessandro had hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder
-if he could not get the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles,
-and all such things hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is
-constantly to be seen in Southern California; as significant a
-testimony, in matter of climate, as any Signal Service Report could
-be,-- a floor and a roof; no walls, only corner posts to hold the
-roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large scale are the South
-California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The longer he thought,
-the greater grew his desire for that saddle.
-
-"Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on
-the ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk
-leaving you. Come, Baba!" and he struck down the hill again, the
-horse following him softly. When he got down below the terrace,
-he broke into a run, with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a
-frolic; and in a few moments they were safe in the willow copse,
-where Alessandro's poor pony was tethered. Fastening Baba with
-the same lariat, Alessandro patted him on the neck, pressed his
-face to his nose, and said aloud, "Good Baba, stay here till the
-Senorita comes." Baba whinnied.
-
-"Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!"
-thought Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the
-corral. He felt strong now,-- felt like a new man. Spite of all the
-terror, joy thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet
-still. The horses had not moved from their former position.
-Throwing himself flat on the ground, Alessandro crept on his
-breast from the corral to the barn, several rods' distance. This was
-the most hazardous part of his adventure; every other moment he
-paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept a few paces
-more. As he neared the corner where Ramona's saddle always
-hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, Luigo slept on
-the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Groping in
-the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt for the
-saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the ground
-again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he
-made, that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear.
-
-"Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!" said Alessandro
-to himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and,
-springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his
-shoulders. It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it
-not, for the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita
-would go in comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If
-need be, Baba would carry them both, and never know it; and it
-might come to that, Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of
-his poor beast, which was stretched out on the ground exhausted;
-Baba standing by, looking down in scornful wonder at this strange
-new associate.
-
-"The saints be praised!" thought Alessandro, as he seated himself
-to wait. "This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita."
-
-Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What
-would be best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide?
-Where should he seek a new home?
-
-It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must
-lay each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to
-get to San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three
-days' hard ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should
-they eat on the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at
-Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy
-it. Then Alessandro remembered his own violin. He had not once
-thought of it before. It lay in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's
-room when he came away, Was it possible? No, of course it could
-not be possible that the Senorita would think to bring it. What
-would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro was sure.
-
-How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and
-conjecturing; more and more thankful, as each hour went by, to
-see the sky still clouded, the darkness dense. "It must have been
-the saints, too, that brought me on a night when there was no
-moon," he thought; and then he said again, devout and
-simple-minded man that he was. "They mean to protect my
-Senorita; they will let me take care of her."
-
-Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties.
-She had reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge.
-Luckily for her, Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for
-which her mother had given her a strong sleeping-draught.
-Margarita was disposed of. If she had not been, Ramona would
-never have got away, for Margarita would have known that she had
-been out of the house for two hours, and would have watched to
-see what it meant.
-
-Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the
-veranda, sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for
-it was not late.
-
-As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one
-of her windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at
-the Madonna's feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she
-was going to do, and prayed that she would watch over her and
-Alessandro, and show them where to go.
-
-"I know she will! I am sure she will!" whispered Ramona to herself
-as she rose from her knees.
-
-Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and
-Felipe should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew
-exactly what she wished to do. She had thought that all out, more
-than two weeks ago, when she was looking for Alessandro hour by
-hour.
-
-Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities,
-two of the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all
-sorts of burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like
-plant, and are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very
-light; are gathered at each end, and fastened to a band which goes
-around the forehead. In these can be carried on the back, with
-comparative ease, heavier loads than could be lifted in any other
-way. Until Ramona recollected these, she had been perplexed to
-know how she should carry the things which she had made up her
-mind it would be right for her to take,-- only a few; simply
-necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls; the new altar-cloth,
-and two changes of clothes; that would not be a great deal; she had
-a right to so much, she thought, now that she had seen the jewels
-in the Senora's keeping. "I will tell Father Salvierderra exactly
-what I took," she thought, "and ask him if it was too much." She
-did not like to think that all these clothes she must take had been
-paid for with the Senora Moreno's money.
-
-And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go.
-What would life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they
-went to Los Angeles, he might earn money by playing at dances.
-Already Ramona had devised several ways by which they could
-both earn money.
-
-There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food,
-too; wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled
-how gaunt he looked. "Starving," he said they had been. Good
-God! Starving! And she had sat down each day at loaded tables,
-and seen, each day, good food thrown to the dogs to eat.
-
-It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that
-before Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that
-Ramona dared feel sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured
-out. All was dark; it was past midnight.
-
-"The violin first!" she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and
-through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it
-in shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then
-she stole out, with this net on her back, "like a true Indian woman
-as I am," she said, almost gayly, to herself,-- through the
-court-yard, around the southeast corner of the house, past the
-garden, down to the willows, where she laid down her load, and
-went back for the second.
-
-This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and
-cold meat. She did not know so well where to put her hand on old
-Marda's possessions as on her own, and she dared not strike a light.
-She made several journeys to the kitchen and pantry before she
-had completed her store. Wine, luckily, she found in the
-dining-room,-- two full bottles; also milk, which she poured into a
-leathern flask which hung on the wall in the veranda.
-
-Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to
-Felipe's breathing. "How can I go without bidding him good-by?"
-she said. "How can I?" and she stood irresolute.
-
-"Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He
-has done all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a
-note for him."
-
-Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light would
-hardly be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the
-dining-room, knelt on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper,
-and wrote:--
-
-"DEAR FELIPE,-- Alessandro has come, and I am going away
-with him to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help
-it. I don't know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra.
-I shall love you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your
-kindness.
-
-"RAMONA."
-
-It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back
-into her room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the
-house. From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly,
-cautiously, she stretched out her arm and dropped the little paper
-on the coverlet, just over Felipe's feet. There was a risk that the
-Senora would come out in the morning, before Felipe awaked, and
-see the note first; but that risk she would take.
-
-"Farewell, dear Felipe!" she whispered, under her breath, as she
-turned from the window.
-
-The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at
-the upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something
-strange going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick
-bark, and came bounding down.
-
-"Holy Virgin, I am lost!" thought Ramona; but, crouching on the
-ground, she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards
-her, gave him a piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While
-he ate it, wagging his tail, and making great demonstrations of joy,
-she picked up her load again, and still fondling him, said, "Come
-on, Capitan!" It was her last chance. If he barked again, somebody
-would be waked; if he went by her side quietly, she might escape.
-A cold sweat of terror burst on her forehead as she took her first
-step cautiously. The dog followed. She quickened her pace; he
-trotted along, still smelling the meat in the net. When she reached
-the willows, she halted, debating whether she should give him a
-large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was eating it, or
-whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided on the
-latter course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was
-safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the house; all was
-dark and still. She could hardly see its outline. A great wave of
-emotion swept over her. It was the only home she had ever known.
-All she had experienced of happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had
-been there,-- Felipe, Father Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the
-garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in
-the chapel! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns in the chapel
-now? How Felipe would miss her, when he knelt before the altar!
-For fourteen years she had knelt by his side. And the Senora,-- the
-hard, cold Senora! She would alone be glad. Everybody else would
-be sorry. "They will all be sorry I have gone,-- all but the Senora! I
-wish it had been so that I could have bidden them all good-by, and
-had them all bid me good-by, and wish us good fortune!" thought
-the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a long sigh, and, turning her
-back on her home, went forward in the path she had chosen.
-
-She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. "Will you come with
-me, Capitan?" she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two
-or three short, sharp notes of delight. "Good Capitan, come! They
-will not miss him out of so many," she thought, "and it will always
-seem like something from home, as long as I have Capitan."
-
-When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom,
-drawing slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of
-apprehension at the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in
-these lonely meadows at this hour of the night? Hastily he led the
-horses farther back into the copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to
-watch. In a few moments more he thought he recognized Capitan,
-bounding by the side of this bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this
-was surely an Indian woman toiling along under a heavy load. But
-what Indian woman would have so superb a collie as Capitan?
-Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. Presently he
-saw the figure halt,-- drop part of its .burden.
-
-"Alessandro!" came in a sweet, low call.
-
-He bounded like a deer, crying, "My Senorita! my Senorita! Can
-that be you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!"
-
-Ramona laughed. "Do you remember the day you showed me how
-the Indian women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I
-did not think then I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead,
-Alessandro. It isn't the weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have
-carried them much farther!"
-
-"Ah, you had no basket to cover the head," replied Alessandro, as
-he threw up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been
-feathers. In doing so, he felt the violin-case.
-
-"Is it the violin?" he cried. "My blessed one, where did you get it?"
-
-"Off the table in Felipe's room," she answered. "I knew you would
-rather have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro;
-it seemed nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to
-carry. Will it be too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can
-walk. And see, Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I
-had to bring him, to keep him still. Can't he go with us?"
-
-Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast,
-licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show
-welcome and affection.
-
-Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three
-times heard him do this. It frightened her. "Why do you laugh,
-Alessandro?" she said.
-
-"To think what I have to show you, my Senorita," he said. "Look
-here;" and turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low
-whistles, at the first note of which Baba came trotting out of the
-copse to the end of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny with
-delight as soon as he perceived Ramona.
-
-Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great.
-
-"Are you not glad, Senorita?" cried Alessandro, aghast. "Is it not
-your own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him
-back. My pony can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I
-thought it would be joy to you to have Baba."
-
-"Oh, it is! it is!" sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. "It
-is a miracle,-- a miracle. How did he come here? And ,,the saddle
-too!" she cried, for the first time observing that. "Alessandro," in
-an awe-struck whisper, "did the saints send him? Did you find him
-here?" It would have seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing,
-had this been so.
-
-"I think the saints helped me to bring him," answered Alessandro,
-seriously, "or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near the
-corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at
-my word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours,
-Senorita. It is no harm to take him?"
-
-"Oh, no!" answered Ramona. "He is more mine than anything else
-I had; for it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just
-stand on his legs; he was only two days old; and I have fed him out
-of my hand every day till now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we
-will never be parted, never!" and she took his head in both her
-hands, and laid her cheek against it lovingly.
-
-Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the
-saddle. "Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so
-heavy as my Senorita thought," he said. "It was the weight on the
-forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which
-gave her pain."
-
-Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. "We must
-make all the speed we can, dearest Senorita," he said, "for a few
-hours. Then we will rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where
-we can hide safely all day. We will journey only by night, lest they
-pursue us."
-
-"They will not," said Ramona. "There is no danger. The Senora
-said she should do nothing. 'Nothing!'" she repeated, in a bitter
-tone. "That is what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help
-us. He would have liked to have you stay with us; but all he could
-get was, that she would do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us.
-They will wish never to hear of me again. I mean, the Senora will
-wish never to hear of me. Felipe will be sorry. Felipe is very good,
-Alessandro."
-
-They were all ready now,-- Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets
-swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking,
-led his tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to
-be wed, but Ramona's heart was full of joy.
-
-"I don't know why it is, Alessandro," she said; "I should think I
-would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,-- not the least; not of
-anything that can come, Alessandro," she reiterated with emphasis.
-"Is it not strange?"
-
-"Yes, Senorita," he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he
-walked close at her side. "It is strange. I am afraid,-- afraid for you,
-my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps
-the saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They
-must love you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people."
-
-"Are you never going to call me by my name?" asked Ramona. "I
-hate your calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always
-called me when she was displeased."
-
-"I will never speak the word again!" cried Alessandro. "The saints
-forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!"
-
-"Can't you say Ramona?" she asked.
-
-Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him
-difficult to say Ramona.
-
-"What was that other name, you said you always thought of me
-by?" she continued. "The Indian name,-- the name of the dove?"
-
-"Majel," he said. "It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you
-since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me,
-and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the
-dark; and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the
-wood-dove: the wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter
-than any other sound in the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one
-mate always --" He stopped.
-
-"As I to you, Alessandro," said Ramona, leaning from her horse,
-and resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.
-
-Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs
-what his mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation;
-no one had ever before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by
-his side so close that he touched his shoulders, and rested his hand
-in his mane. If it had been anybody else than Alessandro, Baba
-would not have permitted it even now. But it must be all right,
-since Ramona was quiet; and now she had stretched out her hand
-and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. Did that mean halt for a
-moment? Baba thought it might, and acted accordingly; turning his
-head round to the right, and looking back to see what came of it.
-
-Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his,
-their lips together,-- what could Baba think? As mischievously as
-if he had been a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side
-and tore the lovers apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,--
-Alessandro running; the poor Indian pony feeling the contagion,
-and loping as it had not done for many a day.
-
-"Majel is my name, then," said Ramona, "is it? It is a sweet sound,
-but I would like it better Majella. Call me Majella."
-
-"That will be good," replied Alessandro, "for the reason that never
-before had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to
-say Majella. I know not why your name of Ramona has always
-been hard to my tongue."
-
-"Because it was to be that you should call me Majella," said
-Ramona. "Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the
-name the Senora called me by -- and dear Felipe too," she added
-thoughtfully. "He would not know me by my new name. I would
-like to have him always call me Ramona. But for all the rest of the
-world I am Majella, now,-- Alessandro's Majel!"
-
-XVI
-
-AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a
-mile, Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by
-the rein, began turning him round and round in the road.
-
-"We will not go any farther in the road," he said, "but I must
-conceal our tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces."
-The obedient Baba backed slowly, half dancing, as if he
-understood the trick; the Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly,
-then by a sudden bound under Alessandro's skilful guidance,
-leaped over a rock to the right, and stood waiting further orders.
-Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was no trail to show where
-they had left the road.
-
-After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening
-circles, cantering off in one direction after another, then backing
-over the tracks for a few moments, Ramona docilely following,
-though much bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro said:
-"I think now they will never discover where we left the road. They
-will ride along, seeing our tracks plain, and then they will be so
-sure that we would have kept straight on, that they will not notice
-for a time; and when they do, they will never be able to see where
-the trail ended. And now my Majella has a very hard ride before
-her. Will she be afraid?"
-
-"Afraid." laughed Ramona. "Afraid,-- on Baba, and with you!"
-
-But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for
-the day in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to
-Temecula,-- a trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in
-this canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit.
-Alessandro did not in the least share Ramona's confidence that no
-effort would be made to overtake them. To his mind, it appeared
-certain that the Senora would never accept the situation without
-making an attempt to recover at least the horse and the dog. "She
-can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen one of her horses," he
-thought to himself bitterly; "and everybody would believe her.
-Nobody would believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's own
-horse."
-
-The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road;
-but it was in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where
-young oaks had grown up so high that their tops made, as it were, a
-second stratum of thicket. Alessandro had never ridden through it;
-he had come up on foot once from the other side, and, forcing his
-way through the tangle had found, to his surprise, that he was near
-the highway. It was from this canon that he had brought the ferns
-which it had so delighted Ramona to arrange for the decoration of
-the chapel. The place was filled with them, growing almost in
-tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so farther down, and to
-reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to let himself
-down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its head was little more
-than a rift in the rocks, and the stream which had its rise in it was
-only a trickling spring at the beginning. It was this precious water,
-as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided
-Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of
-granite would not have seemed a much more insuperable obstacle
-than did this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly
-searching for a break in it. It appeared to Alessandro to have
-thickened and knit even since the last spring. At last they made
-their way down a small side canon,-- a sort of wing to the main
-canon; a very few rods down this, and they were as hidden from
-view from above as if the earth had swallowed them. The first red
-tints of the dawn were coming. From the eastern horizon to the
-zenith, the whole sky was like a dappled crimson fleece.
-
-"Oh, what a lovely place." exclaimed Ramona. "I am sure this was
-not a hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?"
-
-Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. "How little
-does the wood-dove know of rough places!" he said. "This is only
-the beginning; hardly is it even the beginning."
-
-Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place,
-disappearing from sight the moment he entered the chaparral in
-any direction. Returning at last, with a grave face, he said, "Will
-Majella let me leave her here for a little time? There is a way, but I
-can find it only on foot. I will not be gone long. I know it is near."
-
-Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was
-the losing sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. "I must
-go, Majella," he said with emphasis. "We are in danger here."
-
-"Go! go! Alessandro," she cried. "But, oh, do not be long!"
-
-As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and
-snapping before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again
-alone in the world. Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did
-not return at her call. All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's
-neck. The moments seemed hours. At last, just as the yellow light
-streamed across the sky, and the crimson fleeces turned in one
-second to gold, she heard Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw
-his face. It was aglow with joy.
-
-"I have found the trail!" he exclaimed; "but we must climb up
-again out of this; and it is too light. I like it not."
-
-With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the
-open again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as
-close to the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who
-led the way, suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no
-apparent opening; but the boughs parted and closed, and his head
-appeared above them; still the little pony was trotting bravely
-along. Baba snorted with displeasure as he plunged into the same
-bristling pathway. The thick-set, thorny branches smote Ramona's
-cheeks. What was worse, they caught the nets swung on Baba's
-sides; presently these were held fast, and Baba began to rear and
-kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro dismounted, cut the
-strings, and put both the packages securely on the back of his own
-pony. "I will walk," he said. "It was only a little way longer I would
-have ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow."
-
-"Narrow," indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut
-her eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,-- a
-stony, crumbling path,-- on the side of a precipice, down which the
-stones rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as
-they passed; at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell.
-Only the yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made
-shift to keep foothold on this precipice. Of these there were
-thousands; and their tall flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set
-thick with the shining, smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin
-chalices in the sun. Below -- hundreds of feet below -- lay the
-canon bottom, a solid bed of chaparral, looking soft and even as a
-bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees lifted their heads, at intervals,
-above this; and far out in the plain glistened the loops of the river,
-whose sources, unknown to the world, seen of but few human
-eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these fugitives this day.
-
-Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the
-first tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that
-the horse was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short
-hours, now, they would be all at rest. He knew where, under a
-sycamore-clump, there was running water, clear as crystal, and
-cold,-- almost colder than one could drink,-- and green grass too;
-plenty for two days' feed for the horses, or even three; and all
-California might be searched over in vain for them, once they were
-down this trail. His heart full of joy at these thoughts, he turned, to
-see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes full of terror. He had
-forgotten that her riding had hitherto been only on the smooth
-ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so fearless, that he
-had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she had dropped
-the reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and sitting
-unsteadily in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but she
-was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so
-suddenly that Baba, whose nose was nearly on his shoulder, came
-to so sharp a stop that Ramona uttered a cry. She thought he had
-lost his footing.
-
-Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous
-trail was impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more
-nerve than to ride. Yet she looked as if she could not much longer
-keep her seat.
-
-"Carita," he cried, "I was stupid not to have told you how narrow
-the way is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the
-ferns on my back I brought for you."
-
-"Oh, did you?" gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from
-her contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change
-of her thoughts than she could have been by anything else. "Did
-you? It is frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel
-as if I were on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my
-hands and knees, I think I would like it better. Could I?"
-
-"I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella," answered
-Alessandro, sorrowfully. "It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so;
-I will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the
-whole band, for the sheep-shearing,-- old Fernando on his horse all
-the way."
-
-"Really," said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, "I will try not
-to be so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?"
-
-"Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be
-an hour yet before we stop."
-
-But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they
-reached the bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her
-fears; only, as she looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over
-which she had come,-- little more than a brown thread, they
-seemed, flung along the rock,-- she shuddered.
-
-Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming
-when they arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high
-noon did the sun fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her,
-she uttered an exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro.
-"Yes," he said, "when I came here for the ferns, I wished to myself
-many times that you could see it. There is not in all this country so
-beautiful a place. This is our first home, my Majella," he added, in
-a tone almost solemn; and throwing his arms around her, he drew
-her to his breast, with the first feeling of joy he had experienced.
-
-"I wish we could live here always," cried Ramona.
-
-"Would Majella be content?" said Alessandro.
-
-"Very," she answered.
-
-He sighed. "There would not be land enough, to live here," he said.
-"If there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and
-never see the face of a white man again!" Already the instinct of
-the hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in
-Alessandro's blood. "But there would be no food. We could not
-live here." Ramona's exclamation had set Alessandro to thinking,
-however. "Would Majella be content to stay here three days now?"
-he asked. "There is grass enough for the horses for that time. We
-should be very safe here; and I fear very much we should not be
-safe on any road. I think, Majella, the Senora will send men after
-Baba."
-
-"Baba!" cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. "My own horse! She
-would not dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!"
-But even as she spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would
-dare anything; would misrepresent anything; only too well
-Ramona knew what the very mention of the phrase
-"horse-stealing" meant all through the country. She looked
-piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts.
-
-"Yes, that is it, Majella," he said. "If she sent men after Baba, there
-is no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for
-you to say he was yours. They would not believe you; and they
-might take me too, if the Senora had told them to, and put me into
-Ventura jail."
-
-"She's just wicked enough to do it!" cried Ramona. "Let us not stir
-out of this spot, Alessandro,-- not for a week! Couldn't we stay a
-week? By that time she would have given over looking for us."
-
-"I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do
-not know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much,
-now, to kill."
-
-"But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro," said Ramona,
-earnestly, "and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!"
-She was like a child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other
-thought was for the time being driven out of her mind by the terror
-of being pursued. Pursuit of her, she knew, would not be in the
-Senora's plan; but the reclaiming of Baba and Capitan, that was
-another thing. The more Ramona thought of it, the more it seemed
-to her a form of vengeance which would be likely to commend
-itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly prevent it. It was
-he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that it would be
-shameful to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay Ramona's
-hope.
-
-If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note to
-Felipe she had said that she supposed they were going to Father
-Salvierderra, it would have saved both her and Alessandro much
-disquietude. Alessandro would have known that men pursuing
-them, on that supposition, would have gone straight down the river
-road to the sea, and struck northward along the coast. But it did not
-occur to Ramona to mention this; in fact, she hardly recollected it
-after the first day. Alessandro had explained to her his plan, which
-was to go by way of Temecula to San Diego, to be married there
-by Father Gaspara, the priest of that parish, and then go to the
-village or pueblo of San Pasquale, about fifteen miles northwest of
-San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's was the head man of this
-village, and had many times begged him to come there to live; but
-Alessandro had steadily refused, believing it to be his duty to
-remain at Temecula with his father. San Pasquale was a regularly
-established pueblo, founded by a number of the Indian neophytes
-of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of the breaking up of that
-Mission. It was established by a decree of the Governor of
-California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to it. A
-paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the
-Governor's own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first
-Alcalde of the pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death
-the authority passed into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of
-whom Alessandro had spoken.
-
-"Ysidro has that paper still," Alessandro said, "and he thinks it will
-keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are
-beginning to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not
-believe, Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years
-we can perhaps stay there. There are nearly two hundred Indians in
-the valley; it is much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people
-are much better off than ours were. They have splendid herds of
-cattle and horses, and large wheat-fields. Ysidro's house stands
-under a great fig-tree; they say it is the largest fig-tree in the
-country."
-
-"But, Alessandro," cried Ramona, "why do you think it is not safe
-there, if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right."
-
-"I don't know," replied Alessandro. "Perhaps it may be; but I have
-got the feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the
-Americans. I don't believe they will mind the paper."
-
-"They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of
-hers they took away," said Ramona, thoughtfully. "But Felipe said
-that was because Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he
-had no right to give away."
-
-"That's just it," said Alessandro. "Can't they say that same thing
-about any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the
-Senora couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he
-knows all about the law, and can speak the American language,
-what chance is there for us? We can't take care of ourselves any
-better than the wild beasts can, my Majella. Oh, why, why did you
-come with me? Why did I let you?"
-
-After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the
-ground, and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would
-make him look up. It was strange that the gentle girl, unused to
-hardship, or to the thought of danger, did net find herself terrified
-by these fierce glooms and apprehensions of her lover. But she was
-appalled by nothing. Saved from the only thing in life she had
-dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and that he would not leave
-her, she had no fears. This was partly from her inexperience, from
-her utter inability to conceive of the things Alessandro's
-imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was also largely
-due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of her soul,--
-qualities in her nature never yet tested; qualities of which she
-hardly knew so much as the name, but which were to bear her
-steadfast and buoyant through many sorrowful years.
-
-Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro
-had prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the
-manzanita and ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all
-through the canon. Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns,
-five and six feet long; when it was done, it was a couch no queen
-need have scorned. As Ramona seated herself on it, she exclaimed:
-"Now I shall see how it feels to lie and look up at the stars at night!
-Do you recollect, Alessandro, the night you put Felipe's bed on the
-veranda, when you told me how beautiful it was to lie at night out
-of doors and look up at the stars?"
-
-Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,-- the first moment he
-had ever dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. "Yes,
-I remember it, my Majella," he answered slowly; and in a moment
-more added, "That was the day Juan Can had told me that your
-mother was of my people; and that was the night I first dared in my
-thoughts to say that perhaps you might some day love me."
-
-"But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?" said Ramona,
-seeing that he spread no more boughs. "You have made yourself
-no bed."
-
-Alessandro laughed. "I need no bed," he said. "We think it is on
-our mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard,
-Majella. It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I
-shall not sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch."
-
-"Why, what are you afraid of?" asked Ramona.
-
-"It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella," he
-answered. "It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these
-canons; so I shall feel safer to watch to-night."
-
-This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching
-was, that he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave
-him uneasiness. They were faint and evidently old; but they looked
-like the tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to
-prevent the curl of smoke from being seen from below, he would
-light a fire, and keep it blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand,
-lest the beast return.
-
-"But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not
-strong," said Ramona, anxiously.
-
-"I am strong now, Majella," answered Alessandro. And indeed he
-did already look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and
-anxiety. "I am no longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you
-shall watch."
-
-"Will you lie on the fern-bed then?" asked Ramona, gleefully.
-
-"I would like the ground better," said honest Alessandro.
-
-Ramona looked disappointed. "That is very strange," she said. "It is
-not so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made
-tender by lying on it," she continued, throwing herself down; "but
-oh, how sweet, how sweet it smells!"
-
-"Yes, there is spice-wood in it," he answered. "I put it in at the
-head, for Majella's pillow."
-
-Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she
-slept like a child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not
-hear the crackling of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the
-barking of Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Alessandro
-could do to quiet him, made the canon echo with sharp, quick
-notes of warning, as he heard the stealthy steps of wild creatures in
-the chaparral. Hour after hour she slept on. And hour after hour
-Alessandro sat leaning against a huge sycamore-trunk, and
-watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her face, he thought
-he had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of calm repose
-insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a saint,
-he thought; perhaps it was as a saint of help and guidance, the
-Virgin was sending her to him and his people. The darkness
-deepened, became blackness; only the red gleams from the fire
-broke it, in swaying rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black
-storm-clouds in the heavens. With the darkness, the stillness also
-deepened. Nothing broke that, except an occasional motion of
-Baba or the pony, or an alert signal from Capitan; then all seemed
-stiller than ever. Alessandro felt as if God himself were in the
-canon. Countless times in his life before he had lain in lonely
-places under the sky and watched the night through, but he never
-felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was to come
-on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and the next,
-all through the coming years? What was to come to this beloved
-and loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so trustful,
-guarded only by him,-- by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive,
-homeless man?
-
-Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was
-full of them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's
-sharpened sense; pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized,
-speaking and replying, as did the pair whose voices had so
-comforted him the night he watched under the geranium hedge by
-the Moreno chapel,-- "Love?" "Here!" "Love?" "Here!" They
-comforted him still more now. "They too have only each other," he
-thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face.
-
-It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet
-morning twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of
-the sycamores caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to
-twitter in the dusk. Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like
-the familiar sound of the linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and
-waked her instantly. Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her,
-she exclaimed, "Oh, is it morning already, and so dark? The birds
-can see more sky than we! Sing, Alessandro," and she began the
-hymn: --
-
-"'Singers at dawn
-From the heavens above
-People all regions;
-Gladly we too sing,'"
-
-Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot.
-
-"Sing not so loud, my Majel," whispered Alessandro, as her voice
-went carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. "There might be
-hunters near who would hear;" and he joined in with low and
-muffled tones.
-
-As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter
-than before: --
-
-"'Come, O sinners,
-Come, and we will sing
-Tender hymns
-To our refuge,'"
-
-"Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!" said Alessandro.
-"My Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints." And indeed he
-might have been forgiven the thought. as he gazed at Ramona,
-sitting there in the shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief
-by the gray wall of fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair,
-unbound, falling in tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks
-flushed, her face radiant with devout and fervent supplication, her
-eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of sky overhead, where filmy
-vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun she could not see.
-
-"Hush, my love," she breathed rather than said. "That would be a
-sin, if you really thought it.
-
-'O beautiful Queen,
-Princess of Heaven,'"
-
-she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then,
-sinking on her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and
-glided, almost without a break in the melodious sound, into a low
-recitative of the morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased
-gold beads, with an ivory crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the
-Missions' olden times. It had belonged to Father Peyri himself, was
-given by him to Father Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to
-the "blessed child," Ramona, at her confirmation. A warmer token
-of his love and trust he could not have bestowed upon her, and to
-Ramona's religious and affectionate heart it had always seemed a
-bond and an assurance, not only of Father Salvierderra's love, but
-of the love and protection of the now sainted Peyri.
-
-As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and
-slipped the last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of
-sunlight shot into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky
-eastern crest,-- shot in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary,
-lighted it; by a flash as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the
-beads, on Ramona's hands, and on the white face of the ivory
-Christ. Only a flash, and it was gone! To both Ramona and
-Alessandro it came like an omen,-- like a message straight from
-the Virgin. Could she choose better messenger,-- she, the
-compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; mother of the
-Christ to whom they prayed, through her,-- mother, for whose sake
-He would regard their least cry,-- could she choose better
-messenger, or swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and
-would help them in these sore straits'
-
-Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment
-to be found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness
-as thrilled the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees,
-alone in the wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining
-rosary.
-
-XVII
-
-BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had
-become to Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to
-leave its shelter. Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of
-Nature to do more for man than the civilization in its arrogance
-will long permit her to do, than the quick and sure way in which
-she reclaims his affection, when by weariness, idle chance, or
-disaster, he is returned, for an interval, to her arms. How soon he
-rejects the miserable subterfuges of what he had called habits;
-sheds the still more miserable pretences of superiority, makeshifts
-of adornment, and chains of custom! "Whom the gods love, die
-young," has been too long carelessly said. It is not true, in the sense
-in which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell with
-nature; if they are ever lured away, return to her before they are
-old. Then, however long they live before they die, they die young.
-Whom the gods love, live young -- forever.
-
-With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian,
-Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes
-the wonted look of one at home; how she watched the shadows,
-and knew what they meant.
-
-"If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they
-not?" she said, in a tone of pleasure. "I see that yon tall yucca has
-gone in shadow sooner than it did yesterday."
-
-And, "What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not
-know there were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught
-us some names; but they were hard, and I forgot them, We might
-name them for ourselves, if we lived here. They would be our
-relations."
-
-And, "For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my
-Alessandro, and do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a
-sin to do nothing for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the
-while."
-
-And, "Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face,
-Alessandro. It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious
-and not unhappy, but never too glad, I think, when he lives with
-nothing between him and the sky, and the saints can see him every
-minute."
-
-And, "I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the air,
-Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it
-because I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?"
-
-It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than
-Alessandro, yet how full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence
-was more than silent; it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself
-answered. A monosyllable of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what
-other men took long sentences to say, and said less eloquently.
-
-After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, "You speak as the
-trees speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without
-saying anything!"
-
-This delighted Alessandro's very heart. "And you, Majella," he
-exclaimed; "when you say that, you speak in the language of our
-people; you are as we are."
-
-And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words, -- happier
-than she would have been made by any other praise or fondness.
-
-Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a
-miracle. The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its
-contour was already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend
-of a Fairy who wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and,
-herself invisible to all but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang
-loving songs to draw him away from the crowd of his indignant
-nobles, who heard her voice and summoned magicians to rout her
-by all spells and enchantments at their command. Finally they
-succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; but as she vanished
-from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,-- a magic golden
-apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other food. Day
-after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple; and yet,
-morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the golden
-fruit, still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it; and when
-the Fairy came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic
-boat, sailed away with her, and never was seen in his kingdom
-again. It was only an allegory, this legend,-- a beautiful allegory,
-and true,-- of love and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was,
-hour by hour, now growing strong, was as magic and invisible as
-Prince Connla's apple, and just as strength-giving.
-
-"My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?" said
-Ramona, studying his countenance with loving care. "I thought that
-night you would die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your
-eyes shine, and your hand is not hot! It is the blessed air; it has
-cured you, as it cured Felipe of the fever."
-
-"If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella," replied
-Alessandro. "I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I
-saw you. It is not the air;" and he looked at her with a gaze that
-said the rest.
-
-At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading
-up Baba, saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At
-noon Alessandro had said to her: "To-night, Majella, we must go.
-There is not grass enough for another day. We must go while the
-horses are strong. I dare not lead them any farther down the canon
-to graze, for there is a ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I
-found one of the man's cows feeding near Baba."
-
-Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident;
-but the look on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt
-as if exiled afresh in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the
-horses slowly up, and saw Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude
-beside the nets in which were again carefully packed their small
-stores, his heart ached anew. Again the sense of his homeless and
-destitute condition settled like an unbearable burden on his soul.
-Whither and to what was he leading his Majella?
-
-But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was
-in such gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed
-fairly rollicking with satisfaction at being once more on the move.
-Capitan, too, was gay. He had found the canon dull, spite of its
-refreshing shade and cool water. He longed for sheep. He did not
-understand this inactivity. The puzzled look on his face had made
-Ramona laugh more than once, as he would come and stand before
-her, wagging his tail and fixing his eyes intently on her face, as if
-he said in so many words, "What in the world are you about in this
-canon, and do not you ever intend to return home? Or if you will
-stay here, why not keep sheep? Do you not see that I have nothing
-to do?"
-
-"We must ride all night, Majella," said Alessandro, "and lose no
-time. It is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow."
-
-"Is it a canon?" asked Ramona, hopefully.
-
-"No," he replied, "not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It
-is where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high
-hill."
-
-"Will it be safe there?" she asked.
-
-"I think so," he replied; "though not so safe as here. There is no
-such place as this in all the country."
-
-"And then where shall we go next?" she asked.
-
-"That is very near Temecula," he said. "We must go into
-Temecula, dear Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly.
-He will give me money for my father's violin. If it were not for
-that, I would never go near the place again."
-
-"I would like to see it, Alessandro," she said gently.
-
-"Oh, no, no, Majella!" he cried; "you would not. It is terrible; the
-houses all unroofed,-- all but my father's and Jose's. They were
-shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only
-walls. Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old
-woman ever had the strength; they said she was like a fury. She
-said nobody should ever live in those walls again; and she took a
-pole, and made a great hole in one side, and then she ran Antonio's
-wagon against it with all her might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It
-will be dreadful."
-
-"Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?"
-she said timidly.
-
-"The saints forbid!" he said solemnly. "I think it would make me a
-murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I
-should kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of
-it!" he added, after a moment's silence; "it takes the strength all out
-of my blood again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!"
-
-And the word "Temecula" was not mentioned between them again
-until dusk the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along
-between low, wooded hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a
-green, marshy place, with a little thread of trickling water, at
-which their horses stopped, and drank thirstily; and Ramona,
-looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the distance. "Lights,
-Alessandro, lights!" she exclaimed, pointing to them.
-
-"Yes, Majella," he replied, "it is Temecula," and springing off his
-pony he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said:
-"I have been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be
-done here. I do not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If
-men have been sent out to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His
-store is the place where everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare
-not have you go there, Majella; yet I must go. The only way I can
-get any money is from Mr. Hartsel."
-
-"I must wait somewhere while you go!" said Ramona, her heart
-beating as she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It
-looked vast as the sea. "That is the only safe thing, Alessandro."
-
-"I think so too," he said; "but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not
-you be afraid?"
-
-"Yes," she replied, "I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the
-other."
-
-"If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to
-you, Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe
-home,-- he and Capitan."
-
-Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility.
-Alessandro had thought of everything. "What could happen?" she
-cried.
-
-"I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the
-horse," he said.
-
-"But you would not have the horse with you," she said. "How could
-they take you?"
-
-"That mightn't make any difference," replied Alessandro. "They
-might take me, to make me tell where the horse was."
-
-"Oh, Alessandro," sobbed Ramona, "what shall we do!" Then in
-another second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed,
-"Alessandro, I know what I will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No
-one will come there. Shall I not be safest there?"
-
-"Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?" exclaimed Alessandro.
-
-"Why not?" she said. "It is not the dead that will harm us. They
-would all help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there
-while you go; and if you do not come in an hour, I will come to
-Mr. Hartsel's after you. If there are men of the Senora's there, they
-will know me; they will not dare to touch me. They will know that
-Felipe would punish them. I will not be afraid. And if they are
-ordered to take Baba, they can have him; we can walk when the
-pony is tired."
-
-Her confidence was contagious. "My wood-dove has in her breast
-the heart of the lion," said Alessandro, fondly. "We will do as she
-says. She is wise;" and he turned their horses' heads in the
-direction of the graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall,
-with one small gate of wooden paling. As they reached it,
-Alessandro exclaimed, "The thieves have taken the gate!"
-
-"What could they have wanted with that?" said Ramona
-
-"To burn," he said doggedly, "It was wood; but it was very little.
-They might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!"
-
-As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the
-graves. Ramona started.
-
-"Fear nothing," whispered Alessandro. "It must be one of our
-people. I am glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am
-sure. That was the corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to
-her;" and leaving Ramona at the gate, he went slowly on, saying in
-a low voice, in the Luiseno language, "Carmena, is that you? Have
-no fear. It is I, Alessandro!"
-
-It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was
-spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights
-by her husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by
-day, for the Americans were there, and she feared them. After a
-short talk with her, Alessandro returned, leading her along.
-Bringing her to Ramona's side, he laid her feverish hand in
-Ramona's, and said: "Majella, I have told her all. She cannot speak
-a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she says, that you have
-come with me, and she will stay close by your side till I come
-back."
-
-Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all
-she could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness
-she could see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek.
-Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every
-fibre how Ramona was pitying her. Presently she made a gentle
-motion, as if to draw her from the saddle. Ramona bent down and
-looked inquiringly into her face. Again she drew her gently with
-one hand, and with the other pointed to the corner from which she
-had come. Ramona understood. "She wants to show me her
-husband's grave," she thought. "She does not like to be away from
-it. I will go with her."
-
-Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed
-her head assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's
-hand, followed her. The graves were thick, and irregularly placed,
-each mound marked by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with
-the swift step of one who knew each inch of the way by heart.
-More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly fell, and Baba was
-impatient and restive at the strange inequalities under his feet.
-When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled earth
-of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing
-Ramona to the edge of it, pointing down with her right hand, then
-laid both hands on her heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously.
-Ramona burst into weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand,
-laid it on her own breast, to show her sympathy. Carmena did not
-weep. She was long past that; and she felt for the moment lifted
-out of herself by the sweet, sudden sympathy of this stranger,-- this
-girl like herself, yet so different, so wonderful, so beautiful,
-Carmena was sure she must be. Had the saints sent her from
-heaven to Alessandro? What did it mean? Carmena's bosom was
-heaving with the things she longed to say and to ask; but all she
-could do was to press Ramona's hand again and again, and
-occasionally lay her soft cheek upon it.
-
-"Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the
-graveyard?" thought Ramona. "What a comfort to this poor
-heart-broken thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all
-fear. Holy Virgin! but I had died of terror here all alone. Not that
-the dead would harm me; but simply from the vast, silent plain,
-and the gloom."
-
-Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the
-gate. Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro
-would expect to find them there. But it was a long and weary
-watch they had, waiting for Alessandro to come.
-
-After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a
-quick run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile
-from the graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As
-he drew near, he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot.
-"A light in our house!" he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands.
-"Those cursed robbers have gone into it to live already!" His blood
-seemed turning to fire. Ramona would not have recognized the
-face of her Alessandro now. It was full of implacable vengeance.
-Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It was gone. His gun he had left
-inside the graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah! in the
-graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for him.
-Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work,
-one hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who
-were these dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see
-their faces burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself?
-Why, indeed? But he must. He would see the new home-life
-already begun on the grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the
-window from which the light shone, he listened. He heard
-children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the voice of a man,
-gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was evidently the
-supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were on a
-level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in.
-
-A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at
-it a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than
-a baby, sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table,
-impatient for its supper. The room was in great confusion,-- beds
-made on the floor, open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness
-thrown down in the corners; evidently there were new-comers into
-the house. The window was open by an inch. It had warped, and
-would not shut down. Bitterly Alessandro recollected how he had
-put off from day to day the planing of that window to make it shut
-tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could hear all that was said.
-The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a sensitive one,
-and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance of a brute,--
-of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute creation,
-making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which
-never one of them possessed?
-
-"It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!" said the
-woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the
-meaning of what she said. He listened eagerly. "When will the next
-wagon get here?"
-
-"I don't know," growled her husband. "There's been a slide in that
-cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several
-days yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up
-what's here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because
-you hadn't got everything."
-
-"But, John," she replied, "I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to
-put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do
-anything."
-
-"You can grumble, I take notice," he answered. "That's about all
-you women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide
-bedstead in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those
-dogs of Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!"
-
-The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a
-moment. Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress
-the speech, she exclaimed, "Well, I'm thankful enough he did let
-the poor things take their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an
-that bedstead, I know, if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to
-take their houses this way!"
-
-"Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!" cried the
-man. He was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She
-glanced at him half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the
-children, began feeding the baby. At that second the other child
-looked up, and catching sight of the outline of Alessandro's head,
-cried out, "There's a man there! There, at the window!"
-
-Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath.
-Had he imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by
-yielding to this mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of
-his home? With a fearful oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed,
-"One of those damned Indians, I expect. I've seen several hangin'
-round to-day. We'll have to shoot two or three of 'em yet, before
-we're rid of 'em!" and he took his gun down from the pegs above
-the fireplace, and went to the door with it in his hand.
-
-"Oh, don't fire, father, don't." cried the woman. "They'll come and
-murder us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!" and she pulled
-him back by the sleeve.
-
-Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the
-threshold, and stood listening, and peering into the darkness.
-Alessandro's heart beat like a hammer in his breast. Except for the
-thought of Ramona, he would have sprung on the man, seized his
-gun, and killed him.
-
-"I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father," persisted the
-woman. "Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was
-anybody there. Come in; supper's gettin' all cold."
-
-"Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round
-here," said the fiend. "If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't
-know what hurt him;" and levelling his gun at random, with his
-drunken, unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away
-harmlessly into the empty darkness. Hearkening a few moments,
-and hearing no cry, he hiccuped, "Mi-i-issed him that time," and
-went in to his supper.
-
-Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his
-own folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless
-pain of waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for
-him in that desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he
-ventured,-- sliding along on his belly a few inches at a time, till,
-several rods from the house, he dared at last to spring to his feet
-and bound away at full speed for Hartsel's.
-
-Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen
-nowhere except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half
-tavern, it gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the
-whole region. Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at
-Hartsel's, drank at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place
-of its kind within a radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad
-place of its kind within a much wider radius.
-
-Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow -- when he was sober; but as
-that condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he
-sometimes came near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such
-times everybody was afraid of him,-- wife, children, travellers,
-ranchmen, and all. "It was only a question of time and occasion,"
-they said, "Hartsel's killing somebody sooner or later;" and it
-looked as if the time were drawing near fast. But, out of his cups,
-Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful; entertaining, too, to a
-degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his chair till small
-hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk. How he had
-drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have
-told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and
-phases of the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now.
-Here, in this Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the
-country. He liked the wild life, and, for a wonder, he liked the
-Indians. Many a good word he spoke for them to travellers who
-believed no good of the race, and evidently listened with polite
-incredulity when he would say, as he often did: "I've never lost a
-dollar off these Indians yet. They do all their trading with me.
-There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred dollars. If they
-can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die, their relations
-will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till they've got it all
-paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer, maybe, or baskets
-or mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're honester 'n the
-general run of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans that are as
-poor's they are."
-
-Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still
-lower flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers,
-the kitchen, and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of
-rough planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which was one
-great dormitory well provided with beds on the floor, but with no
-other article of bedroom furniture. They who slept in this loft had
-no fastidious standards of personal luxury. These two buildings,
-with some half-dozen out-houses of one sort and another, stood in
-an enclosure surrounded by a low white picket fence, which gave
-to the place a certain home-like look, spite of the neglected
-condition of the ground, which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted
-with weeds and wild grass. A few plants, parched and straggling,
-stood in pots and tin cans around the door of the dwelling-house.
-One hardly knew whether they made the place look less desolate
-or more so. But they were token of a woman's hand, and of a
-nature which craved something more than the unredeemed
-wilderness around her afforded.
-
-A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the
-store. Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men,
-and he heard loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in.
-Stealing around to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the
-other house and opened the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid.
-Mrs. Hartsel had never any but Indian servants in her employ. The
-kitchen was lighted only by one dim candle. On the stove were
-sputtering and hissing all the pots and frying-pans it would hold.
-Much cooking was evidently going on for the men who were
-noisily rollicking in the other house.
-
-Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments
-Mrs. Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon
-experience to find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim
-light she did not recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat
-bowed over, his head in his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort
-of recognized hanger-on of the place, earning his living there by
-odd jobs of fetching and carrying, and anything else he could do.
-
-"Run, Ramon," she said, "and bring me more wood; this cotton
-wood is so dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet
-to-night, with all these men to cook for;" then turning to the table,
-she began cutting her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike
-Ramon was the man who silently rose and went out to do her
-bidding. When, a few moments later, Alessandro re-entered,
-bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would have cost poor old
-Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing it down, on
-the hearth, said, "Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?" she gave a
-scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. "Why, who --" she
-began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she
-continued, "Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for
-old Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga."
-
-"In Pachanga!" Then as yet no one had come from the Senora
-Moreno's to Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona!
-Alessandro's heart felt almost light in his bosom, From the one
-immediate danger he had dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of
-emotion showed on his face, and he did not raise his eyes as he
-replied; "I have been in Pachanga. My father is dead. I have buried
-him there."
-
-"Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?" cried the kindly woman, coming
-closer to Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I heard
-he was sick." She paused; she did not know what to say. She had
-suffered so at the time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had
-made her ill. For two days she had kept her doors shut and her
-windows close curtained, that she need not see the terrible sights.
-She was not a woman of many words. She was a Mexican, but
-there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her veins.
-This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable
-now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his
-shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had
-altered! How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion,
-his superb bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in
-the spring!
-
-"You were away all summer, Alessandro?" she said at last, turning
-back to her work.
-
-"Yes," he said: "at the Senora Moreno's."
-
-"So I heard," she said. "That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her
-son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went
-through here with a drove of sheep once."
-
-"Ay, he is a man now," said Alessandro, and buried his face in his
-hands again.
-
-"Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak," thought
-Mrs. Hartsel. "I'll just let him alone;" and she spoke no more for
-some moments.
-
-Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have
-seized him; at last he said wearily: "I must be going now. I wanted
-to see Mr. Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store."
-
-"Yes," she said, "a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the
-company that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two
-days. Oh, Alessandro," she continued, bethinking herself, "Jim's
-got your violin here; Jose brought it."
-
-"Yes, I know it," answered Alessandro. "Jose told me; and that was
-one thing I stopped for."
-
-"I'll run and get it," she exclaimed.
-
-"No," said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. "I do not want it. I
-thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not
-mine; it was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My
-father said it would bring a great deal of money. It is very old."
-
-"Indeed it is," she replied; "one of those men in there was looking
-at it last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe
-Jim when he told him about its having come from the Mission."
-
-"Does he play? Will he buy it?" cried Alessandro,
-
-"I don't know; I'll call Jim," she said; and running out she looked in
-at the other door, saying, "Jim! Jim!"
-
-Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his
-face, her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and
-defiance. Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining
-all disguises, "Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night.
-Wait till morning."
-
-"Till morning!" A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of
-himself. "I can't!" he cried. "I must go on to-night."
-
-"Why, what for?" exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For
-one brief second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of
-confiding everything to her; only for a second, however. No; the
-fewer knew his secret and Ramona's, the better.
-
-"I must be in San Diego to-morrow," he said.
-
-"Got work there?" she said.
-
-"Yes; that is, in San Pasquale," he said; "and I ought to have been
-there three days ago."
-
-Mrs. Hartsel mused. "Jim can't do anything to-night," she said;
-"that's certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd
-buy it,"
-
-Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld
-him. He could not face one of these Americans who were "coming
-in" to his valley. Mrs. Hartsel understood.
-
-"I'll tell you, Alessandro," said the kindly woman, "I'll give you
-what money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell
-the violin to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back
-out of that, and when you're along this way again you can have the
-rest. Jim'll make as good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good
-friend to all of you, Alessandro, when he's himself."
-
-"I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other
-man in this country," said Alessandro. "He's about the only white
-man I do trust!"
-
-Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat.
-Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. "Humph! Got more'n I
-thought I had," she said. "I've kept all that's been paid in here
-to-day, for I knew Jim'd be drunk before night."
-
-Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an
-abundance of those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed
-as Mrs. Hartsel counted them out on the table,-- one, two, three,
-four, bright five-dollar pieces.
-
-"That is as much as I dare take," said Alessandro, when she put
-down the fourth. "Will you trust me for so much?" he added sadly.
-"You know I have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a
-beggar, till I get some work to do."
-
-The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. "It's a shame!" she said,--
-"a shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else,
-since it happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you?
-Yes, indeed. Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of
-our lives."
-
-"I'm glad he is dead," said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into
-his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. "But he was murdered,
-Mrs. Hartsel,-- murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet
-into him."
-
-"That's true." she exclaimed vehemently. "I say so too; and so was
-Jose. That's just what I said at the time,-- that bullets would not be
-half so inhuman!"
-
-The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the
-dining-room burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken
-Jim, came stumbling, laughing, reeling into the kitchen.
-
-"Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with
-your Indian here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!" stammered Jim,
-making a lurch towards the stove. The men behind caught him and
-saved him. Eyeing the group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not
-a cowardly nerve in her body, said: "Gentlemen, if you will take
-your seats at the table, I will bring in your supper immediately. It is
-all ready."
-
-One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest
-back into the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began
-to pound the table and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing
-ribald songs.
-
-"Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro," whispered Mrs. Hartsel,
-as she passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred
-and contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. "You'd better go. There's
-no knowing what they'll do next."
-
-"Are you not afraid?" he said in a low tone.
-
-"No!" she said. "I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And
-Ramon's round somewhere,-- he and the bull-pups; if worse comes
-to worse, I can call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are
-always the worst to get drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!"
-
-"And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my
-father, and Jose, and Carmena's baby!" thought Alessandro, as he
-ran swiftly back towards the graveyard. "And Father Salvierderra
-says, God is good. It must be the saints no longer pray to Him for
-us!"
-
-But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to
-dwell long on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him
-too loudly. Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft,
-knotted handkerchief, he thought: "Twenty dollars! It is not much!
-But it will buy food for many days for my Majella and for Baba!"
-
-XVIII
-
-EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her
-side, Ramona would never have had courage to remain during this
-long hour in the graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear
-the suspense no longer, and made a movement to go. The chance
-of Alessandro's encountering at Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of
-him and of Baba, loomed in her thoughts into a more and more
-frightful danger each moment she reflected upon it. It was a most
-unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have made. Her excited
-fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes which might
-be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was sitting,
-helpless, in the midnight darkness,-- Alessandro seized, tied,
-treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to
-terrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she
-would ride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion
-as if she would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena
-knew no word, but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's
-meaning, "I must go! It is too long! I cannot wait here!" Carmena
-had clasped her hand tighter, and said in the San Luiseno tongue,
-of which Ramona knew no word, but which yet somehow
-conveyed Carmena's meaning, "O beloved lady, you must not go!
-Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He
-will come." The word "Alessandro" was plain. Yes, Alessandro
-had said, wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a
-fearful ordeal. It was strange how Ramona, who felt herself
-preternaturally brave, afraid of nothing, so long as Alessandro was
-by her side, became timorous and wretched the instant he was lost
-to her sight. When she first heard his steps coming, she quivered
-with terror lest they might not be his. The next second she knew;
-and with a glad cry, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" she bounded to
-him, dropping Baba's reins.
-
-Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still,
-holding the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with
-breathless words. "How she loves Alessandro!" thought the
-widowed Carmena. "Will they leave him alive to stay with her? It
-is better not to love!" But there was no bitter envy in her mind for
-the two who were thus blest while she went desolate. All of Pablo's
-people had great affection for Alessandro. They had looked
-forward to his being over them in his father's place. They knew his
-goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.
-
-"Majella, you tremble," said Alessandro, as he threw his arms
-around her. "You have feared! Yet you were not alone." He
-glanced at Carmena's motionless figure, standing by Baba.
-
-"No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!" replied
-Ramona; "and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was
-there any one there?"
-
-"No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had
-just come from Pachanga," he answered.
-
-"Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour
-ago," continued Ramona. "But she told me to wait."
-
-"She told you!" repeated Alessandro. "How did you understand her
-speech?"
-
-"I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?" replied Ramona. "She
-spoke in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she
-did not say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you
-had so said, and you would soon come."
-
-Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. "Did you say that?" he
-asked.
-
-"Yes," answered Carmena.
-
-"You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words," he said
-delightedly. "She is one of us."
-
-"Yes," said Carmena, gravely, "she is one of us." Then, taking
-Ramona's hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a
-tone as of dire prophecy, "One of us, Alessandro! one of us!" And
-as she gazed after their retreating forms, almost immediately
-swallowed and lost in the darkness, she repeated the words again
-to herself,-- "One of us! one of us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to
-meet it!" and she crept back to her husband's grave, and threw
-herself down, to watch till the dawn.
-
-The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would
-carry them directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all
-risk of meeting or being seen by any of the men on the place, he
-struck well out to the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This
-brought them past the place where Antonio's house had stood.
-Here Alessandro halted, and putting his hand on Baba's rein,
-walked the horses close to the pile of ruined walls. "This was
-Antonio's house, Majella," he whispered. "I wish every house in
-the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was right.
-The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella," he went
-on, his whisper growing thick with rage. "That was what kept me
-so long. I was looking in at the window at them eating their
-supper. I thought I should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I
-should have shot them all dead!"
-
-An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this.
-"Living in your house!" she said. "You saw them?"
-
-"Yes," he said; "the man, and his wife, and two little children; and
-the man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They
-thought they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian;
-so he fired. That was what kept me so long."
-
-Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the
-ground. A few steps farther, and he tripped again. "There is
-something caught round his foot, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It
-keeps moving."
-
-Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed,
-"It's a stake,-- and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what --"
-The rest of his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew,
-he had run swiftly on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and
-Capitan and the pony; and there stood a splendid black horse, as
-big as Baba, and Alessandro talking under his breath to him, and
-clapping both his hands over the horse's nose, to stop him, as often
-as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly a second more before
-he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, and striking it
-sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled the black horse,
-and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his voice: "My
-Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed have
-helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a
-stake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we
-will gallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of
-this cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita
-Canon, I know a trail they will never find!"
-
-Like the wind galloped Benito,-- Alessandro half lying on his back,
-stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with
-joy: which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be
-said. And neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground
-flew away under their feet! This was companionship, indeed,
-worthy of Baba's best powers. Not in all the California herds could
-be found two superber horses than Benito and Baba. A wild,
-almost reckless joy took possession of Alessandro. Ramona was
-half terrified as she heard him still talking, talking to Benito. For
-an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito and Alessandro knew
-every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had descended into the
-deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined sharply to
-the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. "Can you follow,
-dearest Majella?" he cried.
-
-"Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?" she
-retorted, pressing on closely.
-
-But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead,
-he would have given Ramona trouble.
-
-"There is only a little, rough like this, dear," called Alessandro, as
-he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it.
-"Good!" he cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. "Good! Majella!
-We have got the two best horses in the country. You'll see they are
-alike, when daylight comes. I have often wondered they were so
-much alike. They would go together splendidly."
-
-After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of
-the canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free
-from underbrush. "Now," said Alessandro, "I can go from here to
-San Diego by paths that no white man knows. We will be near
-there before daylight."
-
-Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona
-drank it in with delight. "I taste salt in the air, Alessandro," she
-cried.
-
-"Yes, it is the sea," he said. "This canon leads straight to the sea. I
-wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When
-it is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in
-play; and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water,
-and the green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the
-water is like wine in one's head."
-
-"Cannot we go there?" she said longingly. "Would it not be safe?"
-
-"I dare not," he answered regretfully. "Not now, Majella; for on the
-shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming."
-
-"Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married,
-and there is no danger?" she asked.
-
-"Yes, Majella," he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought,
-"Will a time ever come when there will be no danger?"
-
-The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego
-is a succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of
-canons, down many of which small streams make to the sea. These
-canons are green and rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly
-oak. Beginning as little more than rifts in the ground, they deepen
-and widen, till at their mouths they have a beautiful crescent of
-shining beach from an eighth to a quarter of a mile long, The one
-which Alessandro hoped to reach before morning was not a dozen
-miles from the old town of San Diego, and commanded a fine
-view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he had found it a
-nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he believed,
-they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into San
-Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San
-Pasquale that same night. "All day, in that canon, Majella can look
-at the sea," he thought; "but I will not tell her now, for it may be
-the trees have been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the
-shore."
-
-It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not
-been cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid
-bed of moss filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were
-both red. As Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it
-seemed, leading out to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought
-Alessandro had brought her into a fairy-land.
-
-"What a beautiful world!" she cried; and riding up so close to
-Benito that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said
-solemnly: "Do you not think we ought to be very happy,
-Alessandro, in such a beautiful world as this? Do you think we
-might sing our sunrise hymn here?"
-
-Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it
-was not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating
-upward from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still
-burning in the light-house on the promontory walling the inner
-harbor, but in a few moments more it would be day. "No, Majella,
-not here." he said. "We must not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a
-man or a horse may be seen on this upper coast-line as far as eye
-can reach. We must be among the trees with all the speed we can
-make."
-
-It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the
-shelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still
-remained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of
-the long drought,-- a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate
-it with relish in each other's company.
-
-"They like each other, those two," said Ramona, laughing, as she
-watched them. "They will be friends."
-
-"Ay," said Alessandro, also smiling. "Horses are friends, like men,
-and can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see
-Antonio's mare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his
-heels at her; and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a
-dog. Many a time I have laughed to see it."
-
-"Know you the priest at San Diego?" asked Ramona.
-
-"Not well," replied Alessandro. "He came seldom to Temecula
-when I was there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came
-with the men from San Diego at the time when there was fighting,
-and the whites were in great terror; and they said, except for Father
-Gaspara's words, there would not have been a white man left alive
-in Pala. My father had sent all his people away before that fight
-began. He knew it was coming, but he would have nothing to do
-with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. It was no use. They
-would only be killed themselves. That is the worst thing, my
-Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can we
-do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has
-never been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now
-the San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money
-from the starving poor."
-
-"A priest!" ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.
-
-"Ay! a priest!" replied Alessandro. "They are not all good, -- not
-like Father Salvierderra."
-
-"Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!" exclaimed
-Ramona, involuntarily.
-
-Alessandro looked distressed. "It would have been much more
-danger, Majella," he said, "and I had no knowledge of work I could
-do there."
-
-His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one
-feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. "Oh, this is
-much better, really," she said. "I did not mean what I said. It is
-only because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the
-Senora will tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a
-letter, Alessandro?"
-
-"There is a Santa Inez Indian I know," replied Alessandro, "who
-comes down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not
-if he goes to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would
-go up from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once
-he lay in my father's house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him,
-and since then he is always begging me to take a net from him,
-whenever he comes. It is not two days from Santa Inez to Santa
-Barbara."
-
-"I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro," sighed Ramona,
-"when the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then
-there would be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the
-Missions were like palaces, and that there were thousands of
-Indians in every one of them; thousands and thousands, all
-working so happy and peaceful."
-
-"The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,"
-replied Alessandro. "My father says that at some of them were
-dreadful things, when bad men had power. Never any such things
-at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was like a father to all his Indians.
-My father says that they would all of them lie down in a fire for
-him, if he had commanded it. And when he went away, to leave
-the country, when his heart was broken, and the Mission all ruined,
-he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you and I have done; for if
-the Indians had known it, they would have risen up to keep him.
-There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for Mexico, and
-the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over this same
-road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and
-my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came
-with him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and
-my father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred
-things of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told
-me the story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the
-Father was rowed out to the ship in a little boat; and not much
-more than on board was he, my father standing like one dead on
-the shore, watching, he loved him so, when, lo! he heard a great
-crying, and shouting, and trampling of horses' feet, and there came
-galloping down to the water's edge three hundred of the Indians
-from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the Father had gone to
-San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night on his track,
-to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship, and
-told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring the
-very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea,
-and swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on
-board and go with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck,
-blessing them, and saying farewell, with the tears running on his
-face; and one of the Indians -- how they never knew -- made shift
-to climb up on the chains and ropes, and got into the ship itself;
-and they let him stay, and he sailed away with the Father. And my
-father said he was all his life sorry that he himself had not thought
-to do the same thing; but he was like one dumb and deaf and with
-no head, he was so unhappy at the Father's going."
-
-"Was it here, in this very harbor?" asked Ramona, in breathless
-interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could
-see a broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.
-
-"Ay, just there he sailed,-- as that ship goes now," he exclaimed, as
-a white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. "But the
-ship lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor
-from here. It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella.
-The two high lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it
-safe, as if they loved it."
-
-"But, Alessandro," continued Ramona, "were there really bad men
-at the other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?"
-
-"Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It
-was too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it
-was, it has seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It
-is not right that one man should have so much power. There was
-one at the San Gabriel Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set
-over the rest; and when a whole band of them ran away one time,
-and went back into the mountains, he went after them; and he
-brought back a piece of each man's ear; the pieces were strung on a
-string; and he laughed, and said that was to know them by again,--
-by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, who came over
-to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the Mission
-herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions;
-some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they
-always had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they
-preferred, Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts,
-and not know anything; but do you not think they had the right?"
-
-"It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature," replied
-the pious Ramona. "That is what Father Salvierderra said was the
-reason the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made
-the Indians listen. But that was dreadful about the ears,
-Alessandro. Do you believe it?"
-
-"The old woman laughed when she told it," he answered. "She said
-it was a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the
-man who tried to crop my ears that way."
-
-"Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?" asked Ramona.
-
-"No, Majella. It would not be polite," said Alessandro.
-
-"Well, I don't believe it," replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. "I
-don't believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such
-things."
-
-The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out,
-and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it
-prudent to resume their journey. The road on which they must go
-into old San Diego, where Father Gaspara lived, was the public
-road from San Diego to San Luis Rey, and they were almost sure
-to meet travellers on it.
-
-But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when
-they reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a
-long, low adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in
-the old Presidio days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its
-rooms except those occupied by the Father, had been long
-uninhabited. On the opposite side of the way, in a neglected,
-weedy open, stood his chapel,-- a poverty-stricken little place, its
-walls imperfectly whitewashed, decorated by a few coarse pictures
-and by broken sconces of looking-glass, rescued in their
-dilapidated condition from the Mission buildings, now gone utterly
-to ruin. In these had been put handle-holders of common tin, in
-which a few cheap candles dimly lighted the room. Everything
-about it was in unison with the atmosphere of the place,-- the most
-profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Here was the
-spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began
-his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the
-wilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this
-very beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks,
-nursing the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead,
-from the pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor.
-Here he baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his first
-Mission. And the only traces now remaining of his heroic labors
-and hard-won successes were a pile of crumbling ruins, a few old
-olive-trees and palms; in less than another century even these
-would be gone; returned into the keeping of that mother, the earth,
-who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her graves.
-
-Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although
-not a Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he
-had been from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations
-of the place. He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were
-but three things he could have been,-- a soldier, a poet, or a priest.
-Circumstances had made him a priest; and the fire and the poetry
-which would have wielded the sword or kindled the verse, had he
-found himself set either to fight or to sing, had all gathered into
-added force in his priestly vocation. The look of a soldier he had
-never quite lost,-- neither the look nor the tread; and his flashing
-dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and quick elastic step,
-seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his priest's
-gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which had
-made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year,
-as he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for
-the hundreds of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once
-more, as of old, into the keeping of the Church. He had made
-frequent visits to them in their shifting refuges, following up
-family after family, band after band, that he knew; he had written
-bootless letter after letter to the Government officials of one sort
-and another, at Washington. He had made equally bootless efforts
-to win some justice, some protection for them, from officials
-nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself to greater
-efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, and
-indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the
-poetic temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,-- had said, "It is
-of no use; I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!"
-and settling down into the routine of his parochial duties to the
-little Mexican and Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego,
-he had abandoned all effort to do more for the Indians than visit
-their chief settlements once or twice a year, to administer the
-sacraments. When fresh outrages were brought to his notice, he
-paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard, with
-ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp than the
-altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, he
-would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and
-smoke by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted
-harbor, brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not
-redress.
-
-A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine
-brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to
-see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With
-San Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity
-had gone this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now,
-as if it would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church
-on this site. Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the
-dead, must yield to the demands of the living. To build a church on
-the ground where Father Junipero first trod and labored, would be
-a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent; but there were
-other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was right. Yet
-the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a sore one
-to Father Gaspara,-- a daily cross, which he did not find grow
-lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out,
-in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate.
-
-"Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!" exclaimed
-Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. "Father Gaspara
-must be there;" and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the
-uncurtained window. "A marriage, Majella, -- a marriage!" he
-cried, hastily returning. "This, too, is good fortune. We need not to
-wait long."
-
-When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian
-couple had just come in, wishing to be married, the Father
-frowned. His supper was waiting; he had been out all day, over at
-the old Mission olive-orchard, where he had not found things to his
-mind; the Indian man and wife whom he hired to take care of the
-few acres the Church yet owned there had been neglecting the
-Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father was
-vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he
-regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was
-one of the least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable.
-Ramona, who had never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father
-Salvierderra, and who had supposed that all priests must look, at
-least, friendly, was shocked at the sight of the impatient visage
-confronting her. But, as his first glance fell on Ramona, Father
-Gaspara's expression changed.
-
-"What is all this!" he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he
-exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, "Woman, are you
-an Indian?"
-
-"Yes, Father," answered Ramona, gently. "My mother was an
-Indian."
-
-"Ah! half-breed!" thought Father Gaspara. "It is strange how
-sometimes one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another!
-But this is no common creature;" and it was with a look of new
-interest and sympathy on his face that he proceeded with the
-ceremony,-- the other couple, a middle-aged Irishman, with his
-more than middle-aged bride, standing quietly by, and looking on
-with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, impassive faces, as if it
-struck them oddly that Indians should marry.
-
-The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's
-own rooms, locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper.
-He had had bitter reason to take this precaution. It had been for
-more than one man's interest to cut leaves out of this old record,
-which dated back to 1769, and had many pages written full in the
-hand of Father Junipero himself.
-
-As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way,
-the Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each
-other, Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, "Will
-you ride, dear? It is but a step."
-
-"No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk," she replied;
-and Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left
-arm, they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and
-answer, and was still more puzzled.
-
-"He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady," he mused. "What
-does it mean? Who are they?"
-
-Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had
-been used to associations far superior to any which he had known
-in his Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such
-as that with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not
-often heard in his parish. When they entered his house, he again
-regarded them both attentively. Ramona wore on her head the
-usual black shawl of the Mexican women. There was nothing
-distinctive, to the Father's eye, in her figure or face. In the dim
-light of the one candle,-- Father Gaspara allowed himself no
-luxuries,-- the exquisite coloring of her skin and the deep blue of
-her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure and dignified
-bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as
-fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he
-spoke better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians.
-
-"Where are you from?" said the Father, as he held his pen poised in
-hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
-
-"Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro.
-
-Father Gaspara dropped his pen. "The village the Americans drove
-out the other day?" he cried.
-
-"Yes, Father."
-
-Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his
-excitement, as usual, in pacing the floor. "Go! go! I'm done with
-you! It's all over," he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom,
-who had given him their names and their fee, but were still
-hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all were ended or not. "A
-burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen yet in this
-land forsaken of God!" cried the Father. "I saw the particulars of it
-in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then, coming to a halt in front
-of Alessandro, he exclaimed: "The paper said that the Indians were
-compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff took their
-cattle to do it. Was that true?"
-
-"Yes, Father," replied Alessandro.
-
-The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. "What
-are you going to do?" he said. "Where have you all gone? There
-were two hundred in your village the last time I was there."
-
-"Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied Alessandro, "some
-to San Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino."
-
-"Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!" stormed
-Father Gaspara.
-
-Alessandro did not understand the word "philosophy," but he knew
-what the Father meant. "Yes, Father," he said doggedly. "It is now
-twenty-one days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be
-done."
-
-Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this
-fierce, black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring
-out angry invectives.
-
-"The United States Government will suffer for it!" he continued.
-"It is a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them.
-You will see; they will be visited with a curse,-- a curse in their
-borders; their sons and their daughters shall be desolate! But why
-do I prate in these vain words? My son, tell me your names again;"
-and he seated himself once more at the table where the ancient
-marriage-record lay open.
-
-After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. "And the
-woman's?" he said.
-
-Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply,
-"Majella." What name should he give more?
-
-Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, "Majella.
-Majella Phail is my name."
-
-She pronounced the word "Phail," slowly. It was new to her. She
-had never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to
-whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in
-two syllables, and so wrote it.
-
-The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How
-should any one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona
-Ortegna, in the woman married under the name of "Majella
-Fayeel"?
-
-"No, no! Put up your money, son," said Father Gaspara, as
-Alessandro began to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which
-his gold was tied. "Put up your money. I'll take no money from a
-Temecula Indian. I would the Church had money to give you.
-Where are you going now?"
-
-"To San Pasquale, Father."
-
-"Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper,"
-said Father Gaspara. "He was showing it to me the other day. That
-will, it may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy
-yourself a piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to
-nothing."
-
-Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. "How is that,
-Father?" he said. "I do not know."
-
-"Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach," replied
-Father Gaspara; "and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of
-motion also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you
-have picked out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I
-will go with you and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so
-far as I can tell; but I myself am at my wit's ends with their
-devices. Farewell, son! Farewell, daughter!" he said, rising from
-his chair. Hunger was again getting the better of sympathy in
-Father Gaspara, and as he sat down to his long-deferred supper, the
-Indian couple faded from his mind; but after supper was over, as
-he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they returned again, and
-lingered in his thoughts,-- lingered strangely, it seemed to him; he
-could not shake off the impression that there was something
-unusual about the woman. "I shall hear of them again, some day,"
-he thought. And he thought rightly.
-
-XIX
-
-AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona
-rode slowly through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward,
-on the river road, leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The
-river was low, and they forded it without difficulty.
-
-"I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many
-days," said Alessandro; "but that was in spring."
-
-"Then it is well we came not at that time," said Ramona, "All the
-times have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,-- the dark nights, and
-the streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!" and
-she pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible
-in the sky. "Not big enough to do us any harm, however," she
-added. "But, dear Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now?"
-
-"I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have
-been all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told
-Mrs. Hartsel that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men
-should come there asking for us, she would understand, I think,
-and keep a still tongue. She would keep harm from us if she
-could."
-
-Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high
-mesa, or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some
-ten or twelve miles of this, they descended among winding ridges,
-into a narrow valley,-- the Poway valley. It was here that the
-Mexicans made one of their few abortive efforts to repel the
-American forces.
-
-"Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans,
-Majella," said Alessandro. "I myself have a dozen bullets which I
-picked up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at
-them and thought if there should come another war against the
-Americans, I would fire them again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe
-think there is any likelihood that his people will rise against them
-any more? If they would, they would have all the Indians to help
-them, now. It would be a mercy if they might be driven out of the
-land, Majella."
-
-"Yes," sighed Majella. "But there is no hope. I have heard the
-Senora speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power,
-and great riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get
-money, they will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there
-comes the news of their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans
-kill each other only for hate, Alessandro,-- for hate, or in anger;
-never for gold."
-
-"Indians, also," replied Alessandro. "Never one Indian killed
-another, yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money!
-Bah! Majella, they are dogs!"
-
-Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last
-outrage on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and
-hatred which would never die out. Trust in an American was
-henceforth to him impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud
-and cruelty.
-
-"They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro," said Ramona.
-"There must be some that are honest; do you not think so?"
-
-"Where are they, then," he cried fiercely,-- "the ones who are
-good? Among my people there are always some that are bad; but
-they are in disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people
-punished them. If there are Americans who are good, who will not
-cheat and kill, why do they not send after these robbers and punish
-them? And how is it that they make laws which cheat? It was the
-American law which took Temecula away from us, and gave it to
-those men! The law was on the side of the thieves. No, Majella, it
-is a people that steals! That is their name,-- a people that steals,
-and that kills for money. Is not that a good name for a great people
-to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea, they are so many?"
-
-"That is what the Senora says," answered Ramona. "She says they
-are all thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next
-will come more of them, with new laws, to take away more of her
-land. She had once more than twice what she has now,
-Alessandro."
-
-"Yes," he replied; "I know it. My father has told me. He was with
-Father Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then
-all was his to the sea,-- all that land we rode over the second night,
-Majella."
-
-"Yes," she said, "all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever
-saying: 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from
-San Pasquale, Alessandro?"
-
-"No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has
-hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it;
-and I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That
-is the way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will
-be a poor place for my Majella," he said sadly. Alessandro's heart
-was ill at ease. Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but
-Ramona felt no fear.
-
-"No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there,
-rather than the most beautiful place in the world where you are
-not, Alessandro," she said.
-
-"But my Majella loves things that are beautiful," said Alessandro.
-"She has lived like a queen."
-
-"Oh, Alessandro," merrily laughed Ramona, "how little you know
-of the way queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's,
-only comfortable; and any house you will build, I can make as
-comfortable as that was; it is nothing but trouble to have one so
-large as the Senora's. Margarita used to be tired to death, sweeping
-all those rooms in which nobody lived except the blessed old San
-Luis Rey saints. Alessandro, if we could have had just one statue,
-either Saint Francis or the Madonna, to bring back to our house!
-That is what I would like better than all other things in the world.
-It is beautiful to sleep with the Madonna close to your bed. She
-speaks often to you in dreams."
-
-Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she
-uttered these words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a
-being of some other sphere had come to dwell by his side. "I
-cannot find how to feel towards the saints as you do, my Majella,"
-he said. "I am afraid of them. It must be because they love you, and
-do not love us. That is what I believe, Majella. I believe they are
-displeased with us, and no longer make mention of us in heaven.
-That is what the Fathers taught that the saints were ever doing,--
-praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and Jesus. It is not
-possible, you see, that they could have been praying for us, and yet
-such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do not
-know how it is my people have displeased them."
-
-"I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of
-the saints, Alessandro," replied Ramona, earnestly. "He has often
-told me that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many
-times from being wretched because the Senora would not love me.
-And, Alessandro," she went on, growing more and more fervent in
-tone, "even if nothing but misfortune comes to people, that does
-not prove that the saints do not love them; for when the saints were
-on earth themselves, look what they suffered: martyrs they were,
-almost all of them. Look at what holy Saint Catharine endured, and
-the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what happens to us here in this
-world that we can tell if the saints love us, or if we will see the
-Blessed Virgin."
-
-"How can we tell, then?" he asked.
-
-"By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro," she replied; "just as I
-knew all the time, when you did not come,-- I knew that you loved
-me. I knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter
-what happens. If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And
-you,-- you will know that I love you, the same."
-
-"Yes," said Alessandro, reflectively, "that is true. But, Majella, it is
-not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a
-person that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the
-hand."
-
-"No, not quite," said Ramona; "not quite, about a saint; but one can
-for the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in
-my room at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I
-was little I have told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan
-what I should bring away with us. She reminded me of many
-things I had forgotten, except for her."
-
-"Did you hear her speak?" said Alessandro, awe-stricken.
-
-"Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words," replied
-Ramona, confidently. "You see when you sleep in the room with
-her, it is very different from what it is if you only see her in a
-chapel. Oh, I could never be very unhappy with her in my room!"
-
-"I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella," cried Alessandro,
-with sacrilegious warmth.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Ramona, "never speak such a word. You
-would be struck dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the
-thought was a sin,"
-
-"There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house," said
-Alessandro. "It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what
-became of it,-- if it were left behind, or if they took it with my
-father's things to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again,
-I will look."
-
-"Again!" cried Ramona. "What say you? You go again to
-Pachanga? You will not leave me, Alessandro?"
-
-At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage
-always vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was
-transformed from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who
-bore him up as it were on wings of hope and faith, to a timid,
-shrinking, despondent child, crying out in alarm, and clinging to
-the hand.
-
-"After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I
-must go, to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours.
-There is the raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to
-my father. Majella will like to lie on that. My father believed it had
-great virtue."
-
-"Like that you made for Felipe?" she asked.
-
-"Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so
-large as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There
-are chairs, too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine
-as those on your veranda at home. They were given to my father.
-And music-books,-- beautiful parchment books! Oh, I hope those
-are not lost, Majella! If Jose had lived, he would have looked after
-it all. But in the confusion, all the things belonging to the village
-were thrown into wagons together, and no one knew where
-anything was. But all the people knew my father's chairs and the
-books of the music. If the Americans did not steal them,
-everything will be safe. My people do not steal. There was never
-but one thief in our village, and my father had him so whipped, he
-ran away and never came back. I heard he was living in San
-Jacinto, and was a thief yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I
-think if it is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will take
-it out, Majella,"
-
-"Like the Americans," she said, half laughing, but with tears in the
-voice. "Whipping would not cure them."
-
-It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the
-crest of the hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale
-valley. Two such crests and valleys they had passed; this was the
-broadest of the three valleys, and the hills walling it were softer
-and rounder of contour than any they had yet seen. To the east and
-northeast lay ranges of high mountains, their tops lost in the
-clouds. The whole sky was overcast and gray.
-
-"If it were spring, this would mean rain," said Alessandro; "but it
-cannot rain, I think, now."
-
-"No!" laughed Ramona, "not till we get our house done. Will it be
-of adobe, Alessandro?"
-
-"Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are
-very comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build
-one of adobe."
-
-'Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I
-shall not let you, Alessandro, build another."
-
-Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower
-temperament and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if
-she were all of a sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature
-outside the pale of human life,-- outside and above it.
-
-"You speak as the birds sing, my Majella," he said slowly. "It was
-well to name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her
-voice, as you have. She says only that she loves and waits."
-
-"I say that, too, Alessandro!" replied Ramona, reaching out both
-her arms towards him.
-
-The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba
-and Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side
-by side; and Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive
-recognitions of the sympathy between their riders. Already Benito
-knew Ramona's voice, and answered it with pleasure; and Baba
-had long ago learned to stop when his mistress laid her hand on
-Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped now, and it was long minutes
-before he had the signal to go on again.
-
-"Majella! Majella!" cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands
-in his, he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, "if the
-saints would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like
-those she was telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved
-her! But what can Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella
-gives all; Alessandro gives nothing!" and he bowed his forehead on
-her hands, before he put them back gently on Baba's neck.
-
-Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened
-man, this distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert?
-"Alessandro can do one thing," she said, insensibly falling into his
-mode of speaking,-- "one thing for his Majella: never, never say
-that he has nothing to give her. When he says that, he makes
-Majella a liar; for she has said that he is all the world to her,-- he
-himself all the world which she desires. Is Majella a liar?"
-
-But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half
-anguish, that Alessandro replied: "Majella cannot lie. Majella is
-like the saints. Alessandro is hers."
-
-When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir.
-The vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen
-large, flat baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and
-children were turning these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone
-bowls; others were beating the yucca-stalks, and putting them to
-soak in water; the oldest women were sitting on the ground,
-weaving baskets. There were not many men in the village now;
-two large bands were away at work,-- one at the autumn
-sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San
-Bernardino.
-
-In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats
-or of cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills;
-some men were ploughing; several groups were at work building
-houses of bundles of the tule reeds,
-
-"These are some of the Temecula people," said Alessandro; "they
-are building themselves new houses here. See those piles of
-bundles darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they
-brought from Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!" he cried
-joyfully, as a man, well-mounted, who had been riding from point
-to point in the village, came galloping towards them. As soon as
-Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he flung himself from his horse.
-Alessandro did the same, and both running swiftly towards each
-other till they met, they embraced silently. Ramona, riding up, held
-out her hand, saying, as she did so, "Ysidro?"
-
-Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting,
-Ysidro saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own
-tongue, "Who is this woman whom you bring, that has heard my
-name?"
-
-"My wife!" answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. "We were
-married last night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of
-the Senora Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have land
-for me, as you have said."
-
-What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and
-courteous welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, "It
-is well. There is room. You are welcome." But when he heard the
-soft Spanish syllables in which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and
-Alessandro, translating her words to him, said, "Majel speaks only
-in the Spanish tongue, but she will learn ours," a look of disquiet
-passed over his countenance. His heart feared for Alessandro, and
-he said, "Is she, then, not Indian? Whence got she the name of
-Majel?"
-
-A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him.
-"Indian on the mother's side!" said Alessandro, "and she belongs in
-heart to our people. She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed
-of the Virgin, Ysidro. She will help us. The name Majel I have
-given her, for she is like the wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her
-old name down forever, to bear this new name in our tongue."
-
-And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village, -- this
-and her smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children
-were not afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning,
-at sight of her noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality
-they associated only with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and,
-what was more, saw by her every word, tone, look, that she was
-Alessandro's. If Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Ramona
-would have been profoundly impressed and touched, could she
-have heard them speaking among themselves about her; wondering
-how it had come about that she, so beautiful, and nurtured in the
-Moreno house, of which they all knew, should be Alessandro's
-loving wife. It must be, they thought in their simplicity, that the
-saints had sent it as an omen of good to the Indian people. Toward
-night they came, bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged woman
-in the village to look at her. She wished to see the beautiful
-stranger before the sun went down, they said, because she was now
-so old she believed each night that before morning her time would
-come to die. They also wished to hear the old woman's verdict on
-her. When Alessandro saw them coming, he understood, and made
-haste to explain it to Ramona. While he was yet speaking, the
-procession arrived, and the aged woman in her strange litter was
-placed silently on the ground in front of Ramona, who was sitting
-under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had borne her withdrew,
-and seated themselves a few paces off. Alessandro spoke first. In a
-few words he told the old woman of Ramona's birth, of their
-marriage, and of her new name of adoption; then he said, "Take
-her hand, dear Majella, if you feel no fear."
-
-There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and
-hand outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with
-tender reverence: "Say to her for me, Alessandro," she said, "that I
-bow down to her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is
-the will of God that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be
-worthy of such reverence as these people all feel for her."
-
-Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this
-speech, so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A
-murmur of pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The
-aged woman made no reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face,
-and she still held her hand.
-
-"Tell her," continued Ramona, "that I ask if there is anything I can
-do for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me."
-
-"It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,"
-thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue.
-
-Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke
-not. "And say that you will be her son," added Ramona.
-
-Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had
-waited. Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: "It is well; I am
-your mother. The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass
-shall dance when you come. The daughter looks on her mother's
-face each day. I will go;" and making a sign to her bearers, she was
-lifted, and carried to her house.
-
-The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these
-people seemed to her marvellously profound in their meanings.
-She was not herself sufficiently educated or versed in life to know
-why she was so moved,-- to know that such utterances, such
-symbolisms as these, among primitive peoples, are thus impressive
-because they are truly and grandly dramatic; but she was none the
-less stirred by them, because she could not analyze or explain
-them.
-
-"I will go and see her every day," she said; "she shall be like my
-mother, whom I never saw."
-
-"We must both go each day," said Alessandro. "What we have said
-is a solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to
-break it."
-
-Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising
-ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of
-tule reeds and one of adobe,-- the latter a comfortable little house
-of two rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in
-San Pasquale. The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were
-noted far and near throughout the country, stood half-way down
-the slope; but its boughs shaded all three of the tule houses. On
-one of its lower branches was fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously
-made of willow wands, plastered with adobe, and containing so
-many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes a-flutter with
-doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses, were
-huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle
-weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor
-granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn.
-Ramona thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she
-ever saw.
-
-"Are they hard to make?" she asked. "Can you make them,
-Alessandro? I shall want many."
-
-"All you want, my Majella," replied Alessandro. "We will go
-together to get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village.
-It is only two days to make a large one."
-
-"No. Do not buy one," she exclaimed. "I wish everything in our
-house to be made by ourselves." In which, again, Ramona was
-unconsciously striking one of the keynotes of pleasure in the
-primitive harmonies of existence.
-
-The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a
-lucky chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had
-occupied it, having gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino,
-for the winter, to work; this house Ysidro was but too happy to
-give to Alessandro till his own should be done. It was a tiny place,
-though it was really two houses joined together by a roofed
-passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy Juana, Ramon's wife,
-kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. It looked to Ramona
-like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: "Can Majella live in
-this small place for a time? It will not be very long; there are
-adobes already made."
-
-His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, "I think it
-will be very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves
-together in the dove-cote!"
-
-"Majel!" exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said.
-
-Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on a
-cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had
-once belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the
-date, "1790," on its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego
-Mission church it had come, she felt a sense of protection in its
-presence.
-
-"Think, Alessandro," she said; "this bell, no doubt, has rung many
-times for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a
-blessing to the village. I want to live where I can see it all the time.
-It will be like a saint's statue in the house."
-
-With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues,
-Alessandro's desire to procure one for her deepened. He said
-nothing; but he revolved it in his mind continually. He had once
-gone with his shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a
-room of the old Mission buildings a dozen statues of saints
-huddled in dusty confusion. The San Fernando church was in
-crumbled ruins, and such of the church properties as were left
-there were in the keeping of a Mexican not over-careful, and not in
-the least devout. It would not trouble him to part with a saint or
-two, Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to the saint either; on
-the contrary, the greatest of reverence, since the statue was to be
-taken from a place where no one cared for it, and brought into one
-where it would be tenderly cherished, and worshipped every day. If
-only San Fernando were not so far away, and the wooden saints so
-heavy! However, it should come about yet. Majella should have a
-saint; nor distance nor difficulty should keep Alessandro from
-procuring for his Majel the few things that lay within his power.
-But he held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she did
-not know it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and secretly
-as if he had come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes
-would dilate, if she waked up some morning and saw the saint by
-her bedside; and how sure she would be to think, at first, it was a
-miracle,-- his dear, devout Majella, who, with all her superior
-knowledge, was yet more credulous than he. All her education had
-not taught her to think, as he, untaught, had learned, in his solitude
-with nature.
-
-Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had
-heard of a piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief,
-and which startled him for once out of his usual impassive
-demeanor.
-
-"You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a
-hundred sheep?" said Ysidro.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro, "you do not mean that! How is
-that? They told me all our stock was taken by the Americans."
-
-"Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula," replied Ysidro; "but in
-the spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for
-him up into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula
-pasture would fall short, and the people there, who could not
-leave, must have their cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,-- I
-think, near fifty head; and many of the cows have calved; and he
-sent, also, a little flock of sheep,-- a hundred, Ramon said; he
-herded them with ours all summer, and he left a man up there with
-them. They will be down next week. It is time they were sheared."
-
-Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished,
-bounding like a deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter
-the doorway of the little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile
-passed over his face. He was not yet persuaded that this marriage
-of Alessandro's would turn out a blessing. "What are a handful of
-sheep to her!" he thought.
-
-Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence.
-"Majella! my Majella! There are cattle -- and sheep," he cried.
-"The saints be praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said."
-
-"I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro," replied
-Ramona, gently.
-
-"You do not wonder! You do not ask!" he cried, astonished at her
-calm. "Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down
-from the skies?"
-
-"Nay, not as our eyes would see," she answered; "but the holy ones
-who live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth.
-Whence came these cattle, and how are they ours?"
-
-When he told her, her face grew solemn. "Do you remember that
-night in the willows," she said, "when I was like one dying,
-because you would not bring me with you? You had no faith that
-there would be food. And I told you then that the saints never
-forsook those who loved them, and that God would give food. And
-even at that moment, when you did not know it, there were your
-cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains, in the keeping of
-God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?" and she threw her
-arms around his neck and kissed him.
-
-"It is true," said Alessandro. "I will believe, after this, that the
-saints love my Majella."
-
-But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to
-himself: "Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said
-about the saints, if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for
-want of food? It is only for her that the saints pray. They are
-displeased with my people."
-
-XX
-
-ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings
-and vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new
-house, having been beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no
-longer new. It stood on the south side of the valley,-- too far,
-Ramona felt, from the blessed bell; but there had not been land
-enough for wheat-fields any nearer, and she could see the chapel,
-and the posts, and, on a clear day, the bell itself. The house was
-small. "Small to hold so much joy," she said, when Alessandro first
-led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, "It is small, Majella,-- too
-small;" and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, the size of
-Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. "Too small," he
-repeated.
-
-"Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro," she laughed;
-"but quite large enough to hold two persons."
-
-It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona
-had arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich
-as she looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey
-chairs and the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of
-all, the statuette of the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a
-niche in the wall, between the head of the bed and the one
-window. The niche was deep enough to hold small pots in front of
-the statuette; and Ramona kept constantly growing there
-wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and re-wreathed the niche
-till it looked like a bower. Below it hung her gold rosary and the
-ivory Christ; and many a woman of the village, when she came to
-see Ramona, asked permission to go into the bedroom and say her
-prayers there; so that it finally came to be a sort of shrine for the
-whole village.
-
-A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of
-the little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had
-asked. She could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets
-in the thatch. But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona
-strewed food for them, and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them
-inside the posts; they would not build nests inside. It was not their
-way in San Pasquale. They lived in the canons, but this part of the
-valley was too bare of trees for them. "In a year or two more, when
-we have orchards, they will come," Alessandro said.
-
-With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale
-of part of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the
-way of farming implements,-- a good wagon and harnesses, and a
-plough. Baba and Benito, at first restive and indignant, soon made
-up their minds to work. Ramona had talked to Baba about it as she
-would have talked to a brother. In fact, except for Ramona's help,
-it would have been a question whether even Alessandro could have
-made Baba work in harness. "Good Baba!" Ramona said, as she
-slipped piece after piece of the harness over his neck,-- "Good
-Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and you are
-so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?" and with one hand in his
-mane, and her cheek, every few steps, laid close to his, she led
-Baba up and down the first furrows he ploughed.
-
-"My Senorita!" thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in
-pride, as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he
-watched her laughing face and blowing hair,-- "my Senorita!"
-
-But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this
-winter. There was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle,
-which Alessandro had made, under her directions, of the woven
-twigs, like the great outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer woven,
-and of an oval shape, and lifted from the floor by four uprights of
-red manzanita stems,-- in this cradle, on soft white wool fleeces,
-covered with white homespun blankets, lay Ramona's baby, six
-months old, lusty, strong, and beautiful, as only children born of
-great love and under healthful conditions can be. This child was a
-girl, to Alessandro's delight; to Ramona's regret,-- so far as a loving
-mother can feel regret connected with her firstborn. Ramona had
-wished for an Alessandro; but the disappointed wish faded out of
-her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed into her baby-girl's blue
-eyes,-- eyes so blue that their color was the first thing noticed by
-each person who looked at her.
-
-"Eyes of the sky," exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her.
-
-"Like the mother's," said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an
-astonished look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her
-eyes, too, were blue.
-
-"Wonderful!" he said. "It is so. I never saw it;" and he wondered in
-his heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to
-one born of an Indian mother.
-
-"Eyes of the sky," became at once the baby's name in the village;
-and Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into
-the way of so calling her. But when it came to the christening, they
-demurred. The news was brought to the village, one Saturday, that
-Father Gaspara would hold services in the valley the next day, and
-that he wished all the new-born babes to be brought for
-christening. Late into the night, Alessandro and Ramona sat by
-their sleeping baby and discussed what should be her name.
-Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name her
-Majella.
-
-"No! Never but one Majella," he said, in a tone which gave
-Ramona a sense of vague fear, it was so solemn.
-
-They discussed "Ramona," "Isabella." Alessandro suggested
-Carmena. This had been his mother's name.
-
-At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in
-the Temecula graveyard. "Oh, no, no! Not that!" she cried. "It is
-ill-fated;" and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her
-only association with the name.
-
-At last Alessandro said: "The people have named her, I think,
-Majella. Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never
-be called anything but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village."
-
-"Let that name be her true one, then," said Ramona. And so it was
-settled; and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms,
-and made the sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with
-some difficulty the syllables of the Indian name, which meant
-"Blue Eyes," or "Eyes of the Sky."
-
-Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say
-mass, he had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles
-away, in the Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this
-time ridden to meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who
-had come to live in the valley, and had a good new adobe house,
-begged that the Father would do him the honor to stay with him.
-
-"And indeed, Father," added Ysidro, "you will be far better lodged
-and fed than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well
-how all should be done."
-
-"Alessandro! Alessandro!" said the Father, musingly. "Has he been
-long married?"
-
-"No, Father," answered Ysidro. "But little more than two years.
-They were married by you, on their way from Temecula here."
-
-"Ay, ay. I remember," said Father Gaspara. "I will come;" and it
-was with no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again
-the couple that had so strongly impressed him.
-
-Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for
-entertaining the priest. This was like the olden time; and as she
-busied herself with her cooking and other arrangements, the
-thought of Father Salvierderra was much in her mind. She could,
-perhaps, hear news of him from Father Gaspara. It was she who
-had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when he said, "But
-where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella, if we give
-our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but you?" --
-"I will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana," she replied. "For two
-nights, it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father sleep
-in the house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!"
-
-Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of
-gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and
-Ramona's bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly
-made, with broad lace on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains
-and a canopy of bright red calico, the old carved chairs, the
-Madonna shrine in its bower of green leaves, the shelves on the
-walls, the white-curtained window, -- all made up a picture such as
-Father Gaspara had never before seen in his pilgrimages among the
-Indian villages. He could not restrain an ejaculation of surprise.
-Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he exclaimed, "Where
-got you that?"
-
-"It is my wife's," replied Alessandro, proudly. "It was given to her
-by Father Salvierderra."
-
-"Ah!" said the Father. "He died the other day."
-
-"Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!" cried Alessandro. "That will be
-a terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her
-presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will
-make her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy."
-
-Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. "To
-be sure, to be sure," he said absently; "I will say nothing of it; but
-this is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have
-here? And this,-- is this not an altar-cloth?" he added, lifting up the
-beautiful wrought altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his
-coming, had pinned on the wall below the Madonna's shrine.
-
-"Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a
-present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it
-to him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she
-hears that he is dead,"
-
-Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona
-appeared in the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the
-baby over to Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to
-serve the Father's supper.
-
-"I pray you tell her not," said Alessandro, under his breath; but it
-was too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand,
-Ramona exclaimed: --
-
-"That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to
-Father Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father
-Salvierderra, who gave it to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I
-was hoping to hear news of him through you."
-
-"Yes, I knew him,-- not very well; it is long since I saw him,"
-stammered Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have
-told Ramona the truth; she would have set that down to the secular
-priest's indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but
-looking at Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No
-shadow there ever escaped her eye. "What is it, Alessandro?" she
-exclaimed. "Is it something about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?"
-
-Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking
-from one to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces,
-Ramona, laying both her hands on her breast, in the expressive
-gesture she had learned from the Indian women, cried out in a
-piteous tone: "You will not tell me! You do not speak! Then he is
-dead!" and she sank on her knees.
-
-"Yes, my daughter, he is dead," said Father Gaspara, more tenderly
-than that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. "He died a month
-ago, at Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to
-give you such sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was
-very feeble, and he longed to die, I heard. He could no longer
-work, and he did not wish to live."
-
-Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were
-only a confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the
-words, "a month ago." She remained silent and motionless for
-some moments; then rising, without speaking a word, or looking at
-either of the men, she crossed the room and knelt down before the
-Madonna. By a common impulse, both Alessandro and Father
-Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood together outside the
-door, the Father said, "I would go back to Lomax's if it were not so
-late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such grief."
-
-"That would but be another grief, Father," said Alessandro. "She
-has been full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very
-strong of soul. It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who
-give strength to her."
-
-"My faith, but the man is right," thought Father Gaspara, a
-half-hour later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them
-to supper. He did not know, as Alessandro did, how that face had
-changed in the half-hour. It wore a look Alessandro had never seen
-upon it. Almost he dreaded to speak to her.
-
-When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went
-across the valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention
-Father Salvierderra's name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. "I
-cannot talk about him yet, dear," she said. "I never believed that he
-would die without giving us his blessing. Do not speak of him till
-to-morrow is over."
-
-Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they
-met her the next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then
-turned away, and spoke softly among themselves. They all loved
-her, and half revered her too, for her great kindness, and readiness
-to teach and to help them. She had been like a sort of missionary in
-the valley ever since she came, and no one had ever seen her face
-without a smile. Now she smiled not. Yet there was the beautiful
-baby in its white dress, ready to be christened; and the sun shone,
-and the bell had been ringing for half an hour, and from every
-corner of the valley the people were gathering, and Father Gaspara,
-in his gold and green cassock, was praying before the altar; it was
-a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did Alessandro and Ramona
-kneel apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken countenances, not
-even looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached up her
-hands? Gradually it was whispered about what had happened.
-Some one had got it from Antonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's
-friend. Then all the women's faces grew sad too. They all had
-heard of Father Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to the
-ivory Christ in Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to
-her.
-
-As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to
-her, and taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking
-no word. The gesture was more than any speech could have been.
-
-When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with
-quivering lips, "Father, if there is anything you know of Father
-Salvierderra's last hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me."
-
-"I heard very little," replied the Father, "except that he had been
-feeble for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of
-the night kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying."
-
-"Yes," interrupted Ramona; "that he always did."
-
-"And the last morning," continued the Father, "the Brothers found
-him there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to
-move; and they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there
-they found, to their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on
-the stones; and then they took him to the Superior's own room, and
-laid him in the bed, and he did not speak any more, and at noon he
-died."
-
-"Thank you very much, Father," said Ramona, without lifting her
-eyes from the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, "I am
-glad that I know that he is dead."
-
-"Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!"
-mused Father Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. "There's none
-of them would look like that if I were dead, I warrant me! There,"
-he exclaimed, "I meant to have asked Alessandro who this wife of
-his is! I don't believe she is a Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I
-will find out. She's had some schooling somewhere, that's plain.
-She's quite superior to the general run of them. Next time I come, I
-will find out about her."
-
-"Next time!" In what calendar are kept the records of those next
-times which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San
-Pasquale again, Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and
-strangers were living in their home.
-
-It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this
-life, that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note
-of the knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward,
-when Alessandro came in one noon with an expression on his face
-that terrified her; seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in
-his hands, and would neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona
-was near crying from his silence, did he utter a word. Then,
-looking at her with a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice, "It has
-begun!" and buried his face again. Finally Ramona's tears wrung
-from him the following story:
-
-Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the
-head of the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as
-bee-pasture that the Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives
-there, and built a sort of hut for the man whom he sent up to look
-after the honey. Ysidro did not need the land, and thought it a good
-chance to make a little money. He had taken every precaution to
-make the transaction a safe one; had gone to San Diego, and got
-Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in the interview with
-Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent agreed upon
-had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having
-expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he
-wished to renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that
-the land was his, and he was coming out there to build a house,
-and live.
-
-Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara
-had had an angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done
-no good. The Doctor said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all,
-but to the United States Government; and that he had paid the
-money for it to the agents in Los Angeles, and there would very
-soon come papers from Washington, to show that it was his. Father
-Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer in San Diego, and had
-shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,-- the old one from the
-Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San
-Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to
-have; but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for
-believing that such a paper as that was good for anything. He said
-that was all very well when the country belonged to Mexico, but it
-was no good now; that the Americans owned it now; and
-everything was done by the American law now, not by the
-Mexican law any more.
-
-"Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all," said Ysidro.
-"Is that what it means?"
-
-And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the
-cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,-- he could
-not tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at
-Washington.
-
-Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his
-gown on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished
-he were a soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed
-United States Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and
-told him to look after souls, -- that was his business,-- and let the
-Indian beggars alone! "Yes, that was what he said,-- 'the Indian
-beggars!' and so they would be all beggars, presently."
-
-Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His
-voice was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside
-himself with rage and despair.
-
-"You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do
-nothing! We might better be dead!"
-
-"It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had," said
-Ramona, piteously. "It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no
-more came."
-
-"Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman," said Alessandro,
-fiercely. "Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the
-beginning. To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show
-that the land is theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild
-beasts. They are better than we."
-
-From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in
-his bosom. In all the village councils,-- and they were many and
-long now, for the little community had been plunged into great
-anxiety and distress by this Doctor Morong's affair,-- Alessandro
-sat dumb and gloomy. To whatever was proposed, he had but one
-reply: "It is of no use. We can do nothing."
-
-"Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve," he said one night,
-bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him
-that they should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had
-said the headquarters of the Government officers were, and where
-they could learn all about the new laws in regard to land,
-Alessandro laughed at him. "What more is it, then, which you wish
-to know, my brother, about the American laws?" he said. "Is it not
-enough that you know they have made a law which will take the
-land from Indians; from us who have owned it longer than any can
-remember; land that our ancestors are buried in,-- will take that
-land and give it to themselves, and say it is theirs? Is it to hear this
-again said in your face, and to see the man laugh who says it, like
-the lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey to Los Angeles? I
-will not go!"
-
-And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the
-Los Angeles priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently
-interpreted for him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted
-all that the officials had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as
-Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They were not inhuman, and
-they felt sincere sympathy for this man, representative of two
-hundred hard-working, industrious people, in danger of being
-turned out of house and home. But they were very busy; they had
-to say curtly, and in few words, all there was to be said: the San
-Pasquale district was certainly the property of the United States
-Government, and the lands were in market, to be filed on, and
-bought, according to the homestead laws, These officials had
-neither authority nor option in the matter. They were there simply
-to carry out instructions, and obey orders.
-
-Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were
-beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the
-journey; he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los
-Angeles priest had promised that he would himself write a letter to
-Washington, to lay the case before the head man there, and
-perhaps something would be done for their relief. It seemed
-incredible to Ysidro, as, riding along day after day, on his sad
-homeward journey, he reflected on the subject,-- it seemed
-incredible to him that the Government would permit such a village
-as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at sunset; and
-looking down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the
-morning of their arrival, from the hillcrests at the west end of the
-valley, seeing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the
-peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. "If the people who
-make these laws could only see this village, they would never turn
-us out, never! They can't know what is being done. I am sure they
-can't know."
-
-"What did I tell you?" cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito,
-and reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. "What did I
-tell you? I saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come
-as you went, or worse! I have been watching for you these two
-days. Another American has come in with Morong in the canon;
-they are making corrals; they will keep stock. You will see how
-long we have any pasture-lands in that end of the valley. I drive all
-my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell it for what it will
-bring,-- both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. You will see."
-
-When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office
-authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: "I wish to hear no more
-of it. Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and
-my nose. I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the
-men who are waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an
-American may speak truth!"
-
-Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove
-all his cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss.
-"It is better than nothing," he said. "They will not now be sold by
-the sheriff, like my father's in Temecula." The money he got, he
-took to Father Gaspara. "Father," he said huskily. "I have sold all
-my stock. I would not wait for the Americans to sell it for me, and
-take the money. I have not got much, but it is better than nothing.
-It will make that we do not starve for one year. Will you keep it for
-me, Father? I dare not have it in San Pasquale. San Pasquale will
-be like Temecula,-- it may be to-morrow."
-
-To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank
-in San Diego, Alessandro cried: "Sooner would I throw it in the sea
-yonder! I trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust.
-Keep it for me, Father, I pray you," and the Father could not refuse
-his imploring tone.
-
-"What are your plans now?" he asked.
-
-"Plans!" repeated Alessandro,-- "plans, Father! Why should I make
-plans? I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let
-me. You saw our little house, Father!" His voice broke as he said
-this. "I have large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off
-them, it will be something; but my land is of the richest in the
-valley, and as soon as the Americans see it, they will want it.
-Farewell, Father. I thank you for keeping my money, and for all
-you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro told me. Farewell." And he
-was gone, and out of sight on the swift galloping Benito, before
-Father Gaspara bethought himself.
-
-"And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back
-at the record," said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran
-his eye back over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father
-Gaspara's parish, that the list took long to read. The entry of
-Alessandro's marriage was blotted. The Father had been in haste
-that night. "Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--" No more could be
-read. The name meant nothing to Father Gaspara. "Clearly an
-Indian name," he said to himself; "yet she seemed superior in every
-way. I wonder where she got it."
-
-The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft
-rains set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not
-to get in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale
-people went early to ploughing new fields,-- all but Alessandro.
-
-"If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints," he said. "I will plough
-no more land for the robbers." But after his fields were all planted,
-and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the
-valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was
-known, he said to Ramona one morning, "I think I will make one
-more field of wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe
-we will be left unmolested till the harvest is over."
-
-"Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!" said
-Ramona, cheerily. "You are always looking on the black side."
-
-"There is no other but the black side, Majella," he replied. "Strain
-my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any
-more harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we
-are lucky. I have seen the white men riding up and down in the
-valley, and I found some of their cursed bits of wood with figures
-on them set up on my land the other day; and I pulled them up and
-burned them to ashes. But I will plough one more field this week;
-though, I know not why it is, my thoughts go against it even now.
-But I will do it; and I will not come home till night, Majella, for
-the field is too far to go and come twice. I shall be the whole day
-ploughing." So saying, he stooped and kissed the baby, and then
-kissing Ramona, went out.
-
-Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito
-and Baba to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face
-seemed full of thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically.
-After he had gone a few rods from the house, he stopped, stood
-still for some minutes meditatingly, then went on irresolutely,
-halted again, but finally went on, and disappeared from sight
-among the low foothills to the east. Sighing deeply, Ramona
-turned back to her work. But her heart was too disquieted. She
-could not keep back the tears.
-
-"How changed is Alessandro!" she thought. "It terrifies me to see
-him thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;" and kneeling
-before the shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose
-comforted, and drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda,
-seated herself at her embroidery. Her skill with her needle had
-proved a not inconsiderable source of income, her fine lace-work
-being always taken by San Diego merchants, and at fairly good
-prices.
-
-It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus,
-when, glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the
-same moment she saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In
-dismay, she thought, "There is no dinner! He said he would not
-come!" and springing up, was about to run to meet him, when she
-observed that he was not alone. A short, thick-set man was
-walking by his side; they were talking earnestly. It was a white
-man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped. She saw
-Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the tule
-sheds in the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white man
-also; they were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear.
-Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear; she could hear
-nothing, but the gestures told much. Had it come,-- the thing
-Alessandro had said would come? Were they to be driven out,--
-driven out this very day, when the Virgin had only just now
-seemed to promise her help and protection?
-
-The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her
-breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in
-her arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing
-her, made an imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she
-went back to the veranda and sat down to wait.
-
-In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into
-Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro
-still standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his
-hand, Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed;
-at last he seemed to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up
-the horses' reins, came slowly toward her. Again she started to
-meet him; again he made the same authoritative gesture to her to
-return; and again she seated herself, trembling in every nerve of
-her body. Ramona was now sometimes afraid of Alessandro. When
-these fierce glooms seized him, she dreaded, she knew not what.
-He seemed no more the Alessandro she had loved.
-
-Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them
-in the corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked
-to the house; walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the
-door. A lurid spot on each cheek showed burning red through the
-bronze of his skin. His eyes glittered. In silence Ramona followed
-him, and saw him draw from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces,
-fling them on the table, and burst into a laugh more terrible than
-any weeping,-- a laugh which wrung from her instantly,
-involuntarily, the cry, "Oh, my Alessandro! my Alessandro! What
-is it? Are you mad?"
-
-"No, my sweet Majel," he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging
-his arms round her and the child together, drawing them so close
-to his breast that the embrace hurt,-- "no, I am not mad; but I think
-I shall soon be! What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel,
-and of the fields,-- of all that was ours in San Pasquale!
-To-morrow we will go out into the world again. I will see if I can
-find a place the Americans do not want!"
-
-It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not
-been ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound,
-he looked up and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'.
-Alessandro stopped midway in the furrow and watched him. The
-man also watched Alessandro. Presently he came toward him, and
-said roughly, "Look here! Be off, will you? This is my land. I'm
-going to build a house here."
-
-Alessandro had replied, "This was my land yesterday. How comes
-it yours to-day?"
-
-Something in the wording of this answer, or something in
-Alessandro's tone and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or
-heart, or what stood to him in the place of conscience and heart,
-and he said: "Come, now, my good fellow, you look like a
-reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear out, will you, and not
-make me any trouble. You see the land's mine. I've got all this land
-round here;" and he waved his arm, describing a circle; "three
-hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and we're
-coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last
-week. It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make
-a fuss about it. Don't you see?"
-
-Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for
-months. Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he
-had lived over scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm
-and wisdom seemed to be given him now.
-
-"Yes, I see, Senor," he said. "I am not surprised. I knew it would
-come; but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give
-you any trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I
-have heard all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands
-to the Americans. We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard,
-Senor." He paused.
-
-The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond
-expression at being met in this way by an Indian, did not find
-words come ready to his tongue. "Of course, I know it does seem a
-little rough on fellows like you, that are industrious, and have done
-some work on the land. But you see the land's in the market; I've
-paid my money for it."
-
-"The Senor is going to build a house?" asked Alessandro.
-
-"Yes," the man answered. "I've got my family in San Diego, and I
-want to get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel
-comfortable till she's in her own house. We're from the States, and
-she's been used to having everything comfortable."
-
-"I have a wife and child, Senor," said Alessandro, still in the same
-calm, deliberate tone; "and we have a very good house of two
-rooms. It would save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine."
-
-"How far is it?" said the man. "I can't tell exactly where the
-boundaries of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled
-up."
-
-"Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my
-land," replied Alessandro. "My house is farther west than your
-stakes; and I have large wheat-fields there, too,-- many acres,
-Senor, all planted."
-
-Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do
-the handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his
-house and wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and
-it was for that purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When
-he saw the neat whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the
-sheds and corrals all in good order, he instantly resolved to get
-possession of them by fair means or foul.
-
-"There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July,
-Senor, you can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you
-cannot build for less than one hundred dollars. What will you give
-me for them?"
-
-"I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I
-choose," said the man, insolently.
-
-"No, Senor," replied Alessandro.
-
-"What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!" in a brutal sneer. "You
-haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law."
-
-"I shall hinder, Senor," replied Alessandro. "I shall burn down the
-sheds and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the
-wheat is reaped, I will burn that." Still in the same calm tone.
-
-"What'll you take?" said the man, sullenly.
-
-"Two hundred dollars," replied Alessandro.
-
-"Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you," said
-the man; "and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you
-know it, for buying out an Indian!"
-
-"The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San
-Diego. You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I
-need it to take away my things in. The plough you may have. That
-is worth twenty."
-
-"I'll do it," said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch,
-he counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold.
-
-"Is that all right?" he said, as he put down the last piece.
-
-"That is the sum I said, Senor," replied Alessandro. "Tomorrow, at
-noon, you can come into the house."
-
-"Where will you go?" asked the man, again slightly touched by
-Alessandro's manner. "Why don't you stay round here? I expect you
-could get work enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here;
-they'll want hands."
-
-A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he
-choked them back. "I do not know where I shall go, but I will not
-stay here," he said; and that ended the interview.
-
-"I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way," thought
-the man from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of
-lumber. "I expect I should feel just so myself."
-
-Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move
-about the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting
-lids; his restlessness was terrible to see. "By sunrise, I would like
-to be off," he said. "It is like death, to be in the house which is no
-longer ours." Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on
-hearing that terrible laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The
-shock was greater to her than to Alessandro. He had lived with it
-ever present in his thoughts for a year. She had always hoped. But
-far more dreadful than the loss of her home, was the anguish of
-seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed voice, of Alessandro.
-Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed him
-mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more
-feverish in his haste. Before sundown the little house was
-dismantled; everything, except the bed and the stove, packed in the
-big wagon.
-
-"Now, we must cook food for the journey," said Alessandro.
-
-"Where are we going?" said the weeping Ramona.
-
-"Where?" ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like
-impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. "Where?
-I know not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men
-come not! At sunrise we will start."
-
-Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women
-in the village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was
-unwilling. "There will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you
-do not speak to one. Why should we have more tears? Let us
-disappear. I will say all to Ysidro. He will tell them."
-
-This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against
-it, as she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but
-she could not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now?
-
-Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray
-dawn, before a creature was stirring in the village,-- the wagon
-piled high; Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro
-walking. The load was heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly.
-Capitan, unhappy, looking first at Ramona's face, then at
-Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. He knew all was
-wrong.
-
-As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading
-in a northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, "Where does
-this road lead, Alessandro?"
-
-"To San Jacinto," he said. "San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look
-back, Majella! Do not look back!" he cried, as he saw Ramona,
-with streaming eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. "Do not
-look back! It is gone! Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!"
-
-XXI
-
-THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the
-Moreno house. After the first excitement following Ramona's
-departure had died away, things had settled down in a surface
-similitude of their old routine. But nothing was really the same. No
-one was so happy as before. Juan Canito was heart-broken. There
-had been set over him the very Mexican whose coming to the
-place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done well; there had been
-a drought; many had died of hunger,-- a thing for which the new
-Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan to hold
-him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had not
-been broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the
-wool-crop would have been as big as ever. Not one of the servants
-liked this Mexican; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow; each
-man and woman on the place had or fancied some reason for being
-set against him; some from sympathy with Juan Can, some from
-idleness and general impatience; Margarita, most of all, because
-he was not Alessandro. Margarita, between remorse about her
-young mistress and pique and disappointment about Alessandro,
-had become a very unhappy girl; and her mother, instead of
-comforting or soothing her, added to her misery by continually
-bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that Ramona had left in the
-whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing came to fill
-it; there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned by
-some one; mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture,
-compassion, and regret. Where had she vanished? Had she indeed
-gone to the convent, as she said, or had she fled with Alessandro?
-
-Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan
-Can felt sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but
-Alessandro had the wit and the power over Baba to lure him out of
-that corral, "and never a rail out of its place." And the saddle, too!
-Ay, the smart lad! He had done the best he could for the Senorita;
-but, Holy Virgin! what had got into the Senorita to run off like
-that, with an Indian,-- even Alessandro! The fiends had bewitched
-her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every traveller, every
-wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of Alessandro,
-beyond the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been driven out
-of their village, and that there was now not an Indian in the valley.
-There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father had both died;
-but no one knew anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had
-disappeared, that was all there was of it,-- disappeared, like any
-wild creatures, foxes or coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the
-valley was rid of them. But the Senorita! She was not with these
-fugitives. That could not be! Heaven forbid!
-
-"If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself." said Juan Can. "It would
-be some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the
-Senora, who drove her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say,
-Luigo." In some of his most venturesome wrathy moments he
-would say: "There's none of you know the truth about the Senorita
-but me! It's a hard hand the Senora's reared her with, from the first.
-She's a wonderful woman, our Senora! She gets power over one."
-
-But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all
-else in the changed Moreno household, was the relation between
-the Senora Moreno and her son Felipe. On the morning after
-Ramona's disappearance, words had been spoken by each which
-neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora believed that it was
-of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far from the truth;
-the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to repel disease,
-lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no longer to
-her desirable.
-
-Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it
-was yet dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light
-covering had heard the rustle of the paper, and knowing
-instinctively that it was from Ramona, had risen instantly to make
-sure of it. Before his mother opened her window, he had read it.
-He felt like one bereft of his senses as he read. Gone! Gone with
-Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the night, his dear, sweet
-little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales seemed to drop from
-Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of it. A shame! a cruel
-shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had brought it
-on Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt as if he
-had been under a spell all along, not to have realized this. "That's
-what I told my mother!" he groaned,-- "that it drove her to running
-away! Oh, my sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go
-after them, and bring them back;" and Felipe rose, and hastily
-dressing himself, ran down the veranda steps, to gain a little more
-time to think. He returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in
-the doorway, with pale, affrighted face.
-
-"Felipe!" she cried, "Ramona is not here."
-
-"I know it," he replied in an angry tone. "That is what I told you we
-should do,-- drive her to running away with Alessandro!"
-
-"With Alessandro!" interrupted the Senora.
-
-"Yes," continued Felipe,-- "with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps
-you think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to
-have her run away with him, than to be married to him here under
-our roof! I do not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to
-breaking the girl's heart! I am going after them, to fetch them
-back!"
-
-If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less
-quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire
-from the skies she would not surrender till she must.
-
-"How know you that it is with Alessandro?" she said.
-
-"Because she has written it here!" cried Felipe, defiantly holding
-up his little note. "She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She
-writes like a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,-- I, who
-drove her to steal out of my house like a thief!"
-
-The phrase, "my house," smote the Senora's ear like a note from
-some other sphere, which indeed it was,-- from the new world into
-which Felipe had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and
-she opened her lips to reply; but before she had uttered a word,
-Luigo came running round the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him
-at a miraculous pace on his crutches. "Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe!
-Oh, Senora!" they cried. "Thieves have been here in the night!
-Baba is gone,-- Baba, and the Senorita's saddle."
-
-A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and
-turning to Felipe, she said in a tone -- what a tone it was! Felipe
-felt as if he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe
-would never forget,-- "As you were saying, like a thief in the
-night!"
-
-With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever
-before seen Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an
-undertone to his mother, "For God's sake, mother, not a word
-before the men! -- What is that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We
-must see to our corral. I will come down, after breakfast, and look
-at it;" and turning his back on them, he drew his mother by a firm
-grasp, she could not resist, into the house.
-
-She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.
-
-"Ay, mother," he said, "you may well look thus in wonder; I have
-been no man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in
-her veins, be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring
-her back."
-
-"The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!" retorted the
-Senora, at white heat. "You may rear as many Indian families as
-you please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!"
-In spite of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second
-she had burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a
-chair. No counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's
-heart broke within her, when those words passed her lips to her
-adored Felipe. At the sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees
-before her; he kissed the aged hands as they lay trembling in her
-lap. "Mother mia," he cried, "you will break my heart if you speak
-like that! Oh, why, why do you command me to do what a man
-may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can I see my
-sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?"
-
-"I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home,"
-said the Senora, regaining herself a little. "Had they no plans?
-Spoke she not in her letter of what they would do?"
-
-"Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first," he replied.
-
-"Ah!" The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought
-was that this would be the best possible thing which could happen.
-"Father Salvierderra will counsel them what to do," she said. "He
-could no doubt establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My
-son, when you reflect, you will see the impossibility of bringing
-them here. Help them in any way you like, but do not bring them
-here." She paused. "Not until I am dead, Felipe! It will not be
-long."
-
-Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on
-his hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. "My Felipe!"
-she said. "It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!"
-
-"Mother! mother!" he cried in anguish. "I am yours,-- wholly,
-devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?"
-
-"I will not torture you more," she said wearily, in a feeble tone. "I
-ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that
-wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her
-name never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like
-a thief in the night! Ay, a horse-thief!"
-
-Felipe sprang to his feet.
-
-"Mother." he said, "Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to
-her as soon as he was born!"
-
-The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in
-terror and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave
-it for many days. She seemed hovering between life and death.
-Felipe watched over her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes
-followed his every motion. She spoke little, partly because of
-physical weakness, partly from despair. The Senora had got her
-death-blow. She would die hard. It would take long. Yet she was
-dying, and she knew it.
-
-Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a
-step only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so
-much changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well
-again, after a time. And now he would go in search of Ramona.
-How he hoped he should find them in Santa Barbara! He must
-leave them there, or wherever he should find them; never again
-would he for a moment contemplate the possibility of bringing
-them home with him. But he would see them; help them, if need
-be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as he lived.
-
-When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, "You are so
-strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away
-long,-- not over a week," she understood, and with a deep sigh
-replied: "I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If
-the journey must be taken, it is as well done now."
-
-How was the Senora changed!
-
-"It must be, mother," said Felipe, "or I would not leave you. I will
-set off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight."
-
-But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened,
-and there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. "You must
-go, my son?" she asked at last.
-
-"I must, mother!" and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed
-her again and again. "Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?"
-
-"No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell."
-And she turned, that she might not see him go.
-
-Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter.
-Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up
-along the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons
-answering to the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been
-seen. No one had seen any such persons.
-
-When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa
-Barbara Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father
-Salvierderra sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old
-man's face beamed with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly,
-leaning on a staff in each hand. "Welcome, my son!" he said. "Are
-all well? You find me very feeble just now; my legs are failing me
-sorely this autumn."
-
-Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not
-have spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the
-greeting, Felipe exclaimed: "Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has
-she not been with you?"
-
-Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. "Ramona!" he
-cried. "Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?"
-
-It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing himself
-no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he
-known how well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's
-character, and her almost unlimited power over all persons around
-her. Father Salvierderra was not shocked at the news of Ramona's
-attachment for Alessandro. He regretted it, but he did not think it
-shame, as the Senora had done. As Felipe talked with him, he
-perceived even more clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had
-been to Alessandro.
-
-"He is a noble young man," said Father Salvierderra. "His father
-was one of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must
-find them, Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me.
-Perhaps they may yet come. When you find them, bear them my
-blessing, and say that I wish they would come hither. I would like
-to give them my blessing before I die. Felipe, I shall never leave
-Santa Barbara again. My time draws near."
-
-Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he
-hardly listened to the Father's words. "I will not tarry," he said. "I
-cannot rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura
-to-night."
-
-"You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them,"
-said the Father. "God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray
-for them, Felipe;" and he tottered into the church.
-
-Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of
-bewilderment and pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what
-course Alessandro and Ramona had taken, or what could have led
-them to abandon their intention of going to Father Salvierderra.
-Temecula seemed the only place, now, to look for them; and yet
-from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days before leaving
-home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. But he could
-at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as the clew
-seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse on his
-return journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the beast;
-and before he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature
-was near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to
-save her strength. As he was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky
-pass, he suddenly saw an Indian's head peering over the ledge. He
-made signs to him to come down. The Indian turned his head, and
-spoke to some one behind; one after another a score of figures
-rose. They made signs to Felipe to come up. "Poor things!" he
-thought; "they are afraid." He shouted to them that his horse was
-too tired to climb that wall; but if they would come down, he
-would give them money, holding up a gold-piece. They consulted
-among themselves; presently they began slowly descending, still
-halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him. He held up
-the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as they could see his face
-distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no enemy's face.
-
-Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this
-man's reply to Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened
-sharply and caught the word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke
-rapidly in the Indian tongue.
-
-"This woman has seen Alessandro," said the man.
-
-"Where?" said Felipe, breathlessly.
-
-"In Temecula, two weeks ago," he said.
-
-"Ask her if he had any one with him," said Felipe.
-
-"No," said the woman. "He was alone."
-
-A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. "Alone!" What did this
-mean! He reflected. The woman watched him. "Is she sure he was
-alone; there was no one with him?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"Was he riding a big black horse?"
-
-"No, a white horse," answered the woman, promptly. "A small
-white horse."
-
-It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to
-baffle this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe
-reflected. "Ask her if she saw him for any length of time; how long
-she saw him."
-
-"All night," he answered. "He spent the night where she did."
-
-Felipe despaired. "Does she know where he is now?" he asked.
-
-"He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey."
-
-"What to do?"
-
-"She does not know."
-
-"Did he say when he would come back?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"When?"
-
-"Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again."
-
-"Does she know him well?"
-
-"As well as her own brother."
-
-What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very
-depths of his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the
-woman. "I am sorry," he said. "Alessandro was my friend. I wanted
-to see him;" and he rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with
-a covert gleam of triumph.
-
-When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started,
-made as if she would run after him, but checked herself. "No," she
-thought. "It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will
-not tell. Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell."
-
-And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished
-in a moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,-- the
-breath of a loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her.
-
-Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been
-very ill when she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the
-lonely, sorrowing Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro
-was going away to the North, never to return? Fool that he was, to
-have shrunk from speaking Ramona's name to the Indians! He
-would return, and ask again. As soon as he had seen his mother, he
-would set off again, and never cease searching till he had found
-either Ramona or her grave. But when Felipe entered his mother's
-presence, his first look in her face told him that he would not leave
-her side again until he had laid her at rest in the tomb.
-
-"Thank God! you have come, Felipe," she said in a feeble voice. "I
-had begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to
-me. I am going to leave you, my son;" and the tears rolled down
-her cheeks.
-
-Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,--
-this poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the
-consolations of her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed
-incessantly, but got no peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the
-Virgin's face and on the saints; but all seemed to her to wear a
-forbidding look. "If Father Salvierderra would only come!" she
-groaned. "He could give me peace. If only I can live till he comes
-again!"
-
-When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he
-would never again make the journey, she turned her face to the
-wall and wept. Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see
-him: she wished to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What
-would become of them? To whom should she transfer the charge?
-Was there a secular priest within reach that she could trust? When
-her sister had said, in her instructions, "the Church," she meant, as
-the Senora Moreno well knew, the Franciscans. The Senora dared
-not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day by day these fretting
-anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength, and her fever grew
-higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the result of
-Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At last
-he could bear it no longer, and one day said, "Mother, I found no
-trace of Ramona. I have not the least idea where she is. The Father
-had not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead."
-
-"Better so," was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still
-deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each
-day she resolved, "To-morrow I will tell Felipe;" and when
-to-morrow came, she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do
-it till she found herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come
-once more, and then all would be well. With trembling hands she
-wrote him a letter, imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it
-by messenger, who was empowered to hire a litter and four men to
-bring the Father gently and carefully all the way. But when the
-messenger reached Santa Barbara, Father Salvierderra was too
-feeble to be moved; too feeble even to write. He could write only
-by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore, guardedly, sending her his
-blessing, and saying that he hoped her foster-child might yet be
-restored to the keeping of her friends. The Father had been in sore
-straits of mind, as month after month had passed without tidings of
-his "blessed child."
-
-Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt
-the Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so
-the year had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and
-failing mother, and haunted by terrible fears about the lost
-Ramona, had been tortured indeed.
-
-But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The
-Ventura doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no
-more; nothing remained but to give her what ease was possible; in
-a day or two more all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside.
-Rarely was mother so loved and nursed by son. No daughter could
-have shown more tenderness and devotion. In the close relation
-and affection of these last days, the sense of alienation and
-antagonism faded from both their hearts.
-
-"My adorable Felipe!" she would murmur. "What a son hast thou
-been!" And, "My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?" Felipe
-would reply, bowing his head on her hands,-- so wasted now, so
-white, so weak; those hands which had been cruel and strong little
-more than one short year ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive
-the Senora now! The gentle Ramona, had she seen her, had wept
-tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times a look almost of terror. It was
-the secret. How should she speak it? What would Felipe say? At
-last the moment came. She had been with difficulty roused from a
-long fainting; one more such would be the last, she knew,-- knew
-even better than those around her. As she regained consciousness,
-she gasped, "Felipe! Alone!"
-
-He understood, and waved the rest away.
-
-"Alone!" she said again, turning her eyes to the door.
-
-"Leave the room," said Felipe; "all -- wait outside;" and he closed
-the door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she
-ready to go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of
-discovery, rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she
-saw now, saw with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of
-death, would make him, even after she was in her grave, reproach
-her in his thoughts.
-
-But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the
-statue of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to
-frown unforgiving upon her, she said, "Felipe -- behind that statue
--- look!"
-
-Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, "Nothing is there,
-dearest mother. Be calm. I am here."
-
-New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry
-the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? "No! no!
-Felipe -- there is a door there -- secret door. Look! Open! I must
-tell you!"
-
-Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she
-had said.
-
-"Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger," he
-said. As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother
-sitting upright in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand
-pointing to the door, her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed.
-Before a cry could pass his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora
-Moreno was dead.
-
-At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing
-aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the
-confusion, Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into
-its place. Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What
-was he, the son, to find behind that secret door, at sight of which
-his mother had died with that look of anguished terror in her eyes?
-All through the sad duties of the next four days Felipe was
-conscious of the undercurrent of this premonition. The funeral
-ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could not hold the
-quarter part of those who came, from far and near. Everybody
-wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura
-and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done,
-they bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid
-her by the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at
-last, the restless, passionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night
-after the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his
-mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered, "Oh, he must not!
-He will break his heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!"
-
-Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: "Dear
-Senor Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!"
-
-But he put her gently by, saying, "I would rather be here, good
-Marda;" and went in and locked the door.
-
-It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had
-buried his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to
-tell to Felipe the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the
-bottom of the jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to
-his mother, he was in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he
-had read this letter, he sat motionless for a long time, his head
-buried in his hands. His soul was wrung.
-
-"And she thought that shame, and not this!" he said bitterly.
-
-But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would
-find her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were
-dead, it must go to the Santa Barbara College.
-
-"Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church," he
-said. "But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her.
-Oh, shame! oh, disgrace!" From the grave in which Felipe had
-buried his mother now, was no resurrection.
-
-Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat
-down and wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara
-College, telling him of the existence of these valuables, which in
-certain contingencies would belong to the College. Early in the
-morning he gave this letter to Juan Canito, saying: "I am going
-away, Juan, on a journey. If anything happens to me, and I do not
-return, send this letter by trusty messenger to Santa Barbara."
-
-"Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?" asked the old man,
-piteously.
-
-"I cannot tell, Juan," replied Felipe. "It may be only a short time; it
-may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all
-according to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I
-have left you in charge."
-
-"Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!" exclaimed Juan, happier than he
-had been for two years. "Indeed, you may trust me! From the time
-you were a boy till now, I have had no thought except for your
-house."
-
-Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had
-she known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this
-morning out of the gateway through which, only the day before, he
-had walked weeping behind her body borne to burial.
-
-"And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!" he said.
-"My God!"
-
-XXII
-
-DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey
-they scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his
-face sunk on his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona
-watched him in anxious fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing
-laugh won from him no response. After they were camped for the
-night, she said, "Dear Alessandro, will you not tell me where we
-are going?"
-
-In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in
-her tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and
-cried: "My Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I
-cannot tell what to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts
-seem whirling round as leaves do in brooks in the time of the
-spring rains. Do you think I can be going mad? It was enough to
-make me!"
-
-Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she
-could. "Dear Alessandro," she said, "let us go to Los Angeles, and
-not live with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You
-could play at dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I
-could get more sewing to do, too. It would be better, I think."
-
-He looked horror-stricken at the thought. "Go live among the white
-people!" he cried. "What does Majella think would become of one
-Indian, or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our
-villages and drive us out a hundred at a time, what would they do
-to one man alone? Oh, Majella is foolish!"
-
-"But there are many of your people at work for whites at San
-Bernardino and other places," she persisted. "Why could not we do
-as they do?"
-
-"Yes," he said bitterly, "at work for whites; so they are, Majella
-has not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long
-ago, when the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the
-Indians, my father has told me that it was the way only to pay an
-Indian one-half that a white man or a Mexican had. It was the
-Mexicans, too, did that, Majella. And now they pay the Indians in
-money sometimes, half wages; sometimes in bad flour, or things
-he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if he will not take it,
-and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to go, then. One
-man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not take a
-bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the cheek
-with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any
-more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I
-should kill some man, Majella, if I saw things like that."
-
-Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: "If
-Majella would not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the
-mountain, where no white man has ever been, or ever will be. I
-found it when I was following a bear. The beast led me up. It was
-his home; and I said then, it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There
-is water, and a little green valley. We could live there; but it would
-be no more than to live,, it is very small, the valley. Majella would
-be afraid?"
-
-"Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain.
-Oh, do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is
-there no other Indian village you know?"
-
-"There is Saboba," he said, "at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I
-had thought of that. Some of my people went there from
-Temecula; but it is a poor little village, Majella. Majella would not
-like to live in it. Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than
-San Pasquale. There was a kind, good old man who owned all that
-valley,-- Senor Ravallo; he found the village of Saboba there when
-he came to the country. It is one of the very oldest of all; he was
-good to all Indians, and he said they should never be disturbed,
-never. He is dead; but his three sons have the estate yet, and I think
-they would keep their father's promise to the Indians. But you see,
-to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back to Mexico, as Senor
-Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as they did
-Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley.
-We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay,
-we will stay."
-
-It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of
-San Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in,
-though the sky over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern
-and northeastern part of the valley was flooded with a strange
-light, at once ruddy and golden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged
-top and spurs of San Jacinto Mountain shone like the turrets and
-posterns of a citadel built of rubies. The glow seemed
-preternatural.
-
-"Behold San Jacinto!" cried Alessandro.
-
-Ramona exclaimed in delight. "It is an omen!" she said. "We are
-going into the sunlight, out of the shadow;" and she glanced back
-at the west, which was of a slaty blackness.
-
-"I like it not!" said Alessandro. "The shadow follows too fast!"
-
-Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north,
-and tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying
-masses across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to
-fall.
-
-"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant.
-He urged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use.
-Too much even for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the
-heavily loaded wagon.
-
-"There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if
-we could but reach it!" groaned Alessandro. "Majella, you and the
-child will freeze."
-
-"She is warm on my breast," said Ramona; "but, Alessandro, what
-ice in this wind! It is like a knife at my back!"
-
-Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was
-fast thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened.
-
-"Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did," said Ramona, her
-teeth chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer.
-
-"I would rather it blew than not," said Alessandro; "it will carry the
-snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more
-than in the night."
-
-Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as
-Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,-- this
-strange opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath.
-Presently the rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off
-the road. The horses stopped; refused to go on.
-
-"We are lost, if we stay here!" cried Alessandro. "Come, my
-Benito, come!" and he took him by the head, and pulled him by
-main force back into the road, and led him along. It was terrible.
-Ramona's heart sank within her. She felt her arms growing numb;
-how much longer could she hold the baby safe? She called to
-Alessandro. He did not hear her; the wind had risen again; the
-snow was being blown in masses; it was like making headway
-among whirling snow-drifts.
-
-"We will die," thought Ramona. "Perhaps it is as well!" And that
-was the last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself
-being shaken and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, "Sorry
-ter handle yer so rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the
-fire!"
-
-"Fire!" Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically
-she put the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to
-her, and tried to rise from her seat; but she could not move.
-
-"Set still! set still!" said the strange voice. "I'll jest carry the baby
-ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up on
-yer feet;" and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously
-disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry.
-
-"Thank God!" said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. "The
-child is alive! Majella!" he called.
-
-"Yes, Alessandro," she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her
-voice like a distant echo past him.
-
-It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old
-sheep-corral than Alessandro had thought; but except that other
-storm-beaten travellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had
-never found it. Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had
-thought to himself, in almost the same despairing words as
-Ramona, "This will end all our troubles," he saw a faint light to the
-left. Instantly he had turned the horses' heads towards it. The
-ground was rough and broken, and more than once he had been in
-danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed on, shouting
-at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and another
-light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards
-him,-- a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, "Wall,
-stranger, I allow yer inter trouble," were as intelligible to
-Alessandro as if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno
-dialect.
-
-Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish.
-
-"Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!" thought Jeff
-Hyer to himself. "Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I
-wouldn't know better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!"
-And as he put the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half
-impatiently, "Ef I'd knowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev'
-gone out ter 'um. They're more ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer
-tropicks."
-
-"Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a
-human creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this,"
-replied the woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the
-motherly hand at its first touch, and ceased crying.
-
-"Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!" she exclaimed, as she
-looked into the baby's face. "I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this
-bein' aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this
-minnit."
-
-"Better see't th' mother fust, Ri," said Jeff, leading, half carrying,
-Ramona into the hut. "She's nigh abaout froze stiff!"
-
-But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative
-for Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had
-fully recovered. It was in a strange group she found herself. On a
-mattress, in the corner of the hut, lay a young man apparently
-about twenty-five, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks told but
-too plainly the story of his disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her
-face gaunt, her hands hardened and wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes
-ragged, her dry and broken light hair wound in a careless,
-straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying over her forehead,
-was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite of her careless,
-unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity in her
-bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and
-warmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted;
-and as she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, "This
-ain't no common Mexican, no how." "Be ye movers?" she said.
-
-Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not
-included. "Ah, Senora," she said regretfully, "I cannot talk in the
-English speech; only in Spanish."
-
-"Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He
-can't talk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er
-kilter. Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,-- fur warm climate!
-'pears like it, don't it?" and she chuckled grimly, but with a side
-glance of ineffable tenderness at the sick man. "Ask her who they
-be, Jos," she added.
-
-Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on
-Ramona, said in Spanish, "My mother asks if you are travellers?"
-
-"Yes," said Ramona. "We have come all the way from San Diego.
-We are Indians."
-
-"Injuns!" ejaculated Jos's mother. "Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly
-took in Injuns? What on airth -- Well, well, she's fond uv her
-baby's enny white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun,
-they've got to stay naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech
-weather's this. I bet thet baby's father wuz white, then. Look at
-them blue eyes."
-
-Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand
-nothing. Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking
-English. She had never before heard so many English sentences
-without being able to understand one word. The Tennessee drawl
-so altered even the commonest words, that she did not recognize
-them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, "I know very little English. I
-am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it tire you to interpret to me
-what your mother said?"
-
-Jos was as full of humor as his mother. "She wants me to tell her
-what you wuz sayin'," he said, "I allow, I'll only tell her the part
-on't she'll like best.-- My mother says you can stay here with us till
-the storm is over," he said to Ramona.
-
-Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and
-carried it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and
-emotion. "Thanks! thanks! Senora!" she cried.
-
-"What is it she calls me, Jos?" asked his mother.
-
-"Senora," he replied. "It only means the same as lady."
-
-"Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round
-where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me
-whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken."
-
-With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the
-title of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.
-
-Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated
-after him both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and
-finally said, "I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every
-one."
-
-"Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ri, "aout here 'n thes
-wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,-- jest what they all say ter
-hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter
-see ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help;
-but thet ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody
-could feel enny different."
-
-"There's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affectionately. "Yer'd
-find out fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's
-good's you air ter everybody."
-
-Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held
-close to her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of
-warmth, she now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the
-fearful storm which raged outside. It was only a hut of rough
-boards, carelessly knocked together for a shepherd's temporary
-home. It had been long unused, and many of the boards were loose
-and broken. Through these crevices, at every blast of the wind, the
-fine snow swirled. On the hearth were burning a few sticks of
-wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer had hastily
-collected before the storm reached its height. A few more sticks
-lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor
-provision for a night in the snow. "Be ye warm, Jos?" she asked.
-
-"Not very, mammy," he said; "but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's
-somethin'."
-
-It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they
-had always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they
-suffered from it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all
-Southern Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family
-than theirs. But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong,
-whatever was lacking, it was "jest like aour luck," they said, and
-did nothing, or next to nothing, about it. Good-natured,
-affectionate, humorous people; after all, they got more comfort out
-of life than many a family whose surface conditions were
-incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest child and
-only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and the
-doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across the
-plains in a wagon to California, they said, "What good luck 'Lizy
-was married last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the
-farm 'n goin' right off." And they sold their little place for half it
-was worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon,
-and set off, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the
-bottom of the wagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a
-pleasure-trip. A pair of steers "to spell" the horses, and a cow to
-give milk for Jos, they drove before them; and so they had come by
-slow stages, sometimes camping for a week at a time, all the way
-from Tennessee to the San Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded.
-Jos was getting well. Another six months, they thought, would see
-him cured; and it would have gone hard with any one who had
-tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyer that they were not
-as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they not saved Joshua,
-their son?
-
-Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem
-singularly like those in vogue in New England. From totally
-opposite motives, the lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the
-hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all their family names to the
-shortest. To speak three syllables where one will answer, seems to
-the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean, quite too much
-trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having heard her
-name, "Maria," in full; as a child, and until she was married, she
-was simply "Ri;" and as soon as she had a house of her own, to
-become a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by
-common consent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and
-universal aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and
-honor than she dreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her
-reach, that did not call her or know of her as "Aunt Ri."
-
-"I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not," she
-said reflectively; "ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll
-come short o' wood, thet's clear." As she spoke, the door of the hut
-burst open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro,
-both covered with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro,
-luckily, knew of a little clump of young cottonwood-trees in a
-ravine, only a few rods from the house; and the first thing he had
-thought of, after tethering the horses in shelter between the hut and
-the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff, seeing him take a hatchet from
-the wagon, had understood, got his own, and followed; and now
-there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm for hours. As
-soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to
-Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's
-face, then into hers; then he said devoutly, "The saints be praised,
-my Majella! It is a miracle!"
-
-Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. "Ef they ain't Catholics!"
-he thought. "What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell
-mammy they're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what
-they be. Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw
-sence I wuz born."
-
-By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well
-acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of
-friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between
-them.
-
-"Jeff," said Aunt Ri,-- "Jeff, they can't understand a word we say,
-so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't
-seem hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any
-language but their own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n
-the subjeck uv Injuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about
-'em; I didn't want ter come nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me.
-This woman, here, she's ez sweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound
-up 'n thet baby's yer could ask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet
-man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest worships the ground she walks on?
-Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I see a white man think so much
-uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think yer ever did yerself?"
-
-Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost
-incredible. Her ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers,
-and from a book or two of narratives of massacres, and from an
-occasional sight of vagabond bands or families they had
-encountered in their journey across the plains. Here she found
-herself sitting side by side in friendly intercourse with an Indian
-man and Indian woman, whose appearance and behavior were
-attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularly drawn.
-
-"I'm free to confess, Jos," she said, "I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I
-hain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've
-took to like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any
-nigger in Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she
-sez, but she don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is.
-D' yer notice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a
-store by thet feller? 'N' I don't blame her."
-
-Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with
-Alessandro without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to
-him. And now there was added to this devotion an element of
-indefinable anxiety which made its vigilance unceasing. Ramona
-feared for Alessandro's reason. She had hardly put it into words to
-herself, but the terrible fear dwelt with her. She felt that another
-blow would be more than he could bear.
-
-The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was
-a solid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic
-sky.
-
-"It will be all gone by noon to-morrow," said Alessandro to Jos,
-who was dreading the next day.
-
-"Not really!" he said.
-
-"You will see," said Alessandro. "I have often known it thus. It is
-like death while it lasts; but it is never long."
-
-The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side
-of the valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try
-the waters for Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for
-living in their primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to
-the rest with great anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on
-the move. Her husband's anticipations were of a more stirring
-nature. He had heard that there was good hunting on San Jacinto
-Mountain. When he found that Alessandro knew the region
-thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he was
-rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide
-in hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion;
-companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,--
-companionship, the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of
-which he was fond. This hot-spring canon was only a short
-distance from the Saboba village, of which they had spoken as a
-possible home; which she had from the first desired to try. She no
-longer had repugnance to the thought of an Indian village; she
-already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any Indian people.
-She had become, as Carmena had said, "one of them."
-
-A few days saw the two families settled,-- the Hyers in their tent
-and wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with
-the baby, in a little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house
-belonged to an old Indian woman who, her husband having died,
-had gone to live with a daughter, and was very glad to get a few
-dollars by renting her own house. It was a wretched place; one
-small room, walled with poorly made adobe bricks, thatched with
-tule, no floor, and only one window. When Alessandro heard
-Ramona say cheerily, "Oh, this will do very well, when it is
-repaired a little," his face was convulsed, and he turned away; but
-he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, and
-there were few better. Two months later, no one would have
-known it. Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine
-deerskins covered the earth floor; a third was spread over the
-bedstead; and the horns, hung on the walls, served for hooks to
-hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico canopy was again set up over
-the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red manzanita frame, stood
-near. A small window in the door, and one more cut in the walls,
-let in light and air. On a shelf near one of these windows stood the
-little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San Pasquale.
-
-When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she
-put both arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide
-open, her eyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in
-an ejaculation: "Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!"
-
-Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had
-the expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could
-not understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she
-understood it. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: "It beats all
-ever I see, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'.
-It ain't no more'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this
-yer tent, fur all three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin';
-an' I vow, Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me,
-it does. I'd jest like you to see it."
-
-And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt
-Ri had been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle
-here which had never entered into their life. They did not know it
-by name, and it could not have been either taught, transferred, or
-explained to the good-hearted wife and mother who had been so
-many years the affectionate disorderly genius of their home. But
-they felt its charm; and when, one day, after the return of
-Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly successful hunt, the two
-families had sat down together to a supper of Ramona's cooking, --
-stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles with chili,-- their
-wonder was still greater.
-
-"Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos," said Aunt Ri. "I
-never thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!"
-
-Ramona laughed. "No; it is Mexican," she said. "I learned to cook
-from an old Mexican woman."
-
-"Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the
-time to fuss with it," said Aunt Ri; "but I may's well git the rule,
-naow I'm here."
-
-Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned
-money. He had been lifted out of himself by kindly
-companionship; he saw Ramona cheerful, the little one sunny; the
-sense of home, the strongest passion Alessandro possessed, next to
-his love for Ramona, began again to awake in him. He began to
-talk about building a house. He had found things in the village
-better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little handful, to
-be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large; their
-stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and two
-or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd
-the Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, and
-there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was
-content. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but
-akin to it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a
-house; Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his
-surprise, when he spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they
-needed, now. Was not Alessandro comfortable? She was. It would
-be wise to wait longer before building.
-
-Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had
-been away on his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he
-never saw. She had gone to the store and post-office several times,
-to exchange baskets or lace for flour, and she had heard talk there
-which disquieted her. She did not believe that Saboba was safe.
-One day she had heard a man say, "If there is a drought we shall
-have the devil to pay with our stock before winter is over." "Yes,"
-said another; "and look at those damned Indians over there in
-Saboba, with water running all the time in their village! It's a
-shame they should have that spring!"
-
-Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She
-kept it locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a
-ceaseless warning and prophecy. When she reached home that day
-she went down to the spring in the centre of the village, and stood
-a long time looking at the bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless
-treasure; a long irrigating ditch led from it down into the bottom,
-where lay the cultivated fields,-- many acres in wheat, barley, and
-vegetables. Alessandro himself had fields there from which they
-would harvest all they needed for the horses and their cow all
-winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites took away this water,
-Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring began in the very
-heart of the village, they could not take it without destroying the
-village. "And the Ravallos would surely never let that be done,"
-thought Ramona. "While they live, it will not happen."
-
-It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly
-Hyers pulled up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended
-three months had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the
-climate, and the waters had seemed to do such good to Jos. But,
-"We ain't rich folks, yer know, not by a long ways, we ain't," said
-Aunt Ri; "an' we've got pretty nigh down to where Jeff an' me's got
-to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git settled 'n some o' these towns
-where there's carpenterin' to be done. Jeff, he's a master hand to
-thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't think it; 'n I kin airn right
-smart at weavin'; jest give me a good carpet-loom, 'n I won't be
-beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du love weavin'. I donno how
-I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh about a year, without a
-loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do yer think yer'd be
-contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free to say I didn't
-know's I should."
-
-"Is it hard?" cried Ramona. "Could I learn to do it?" It was
-wonderful what progress in understanding and speaking English
-Ramona had made in these six months. She now understood nearly
-all that was said directly to her, though she could not follow
-general and confused conversation.
-
-"Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't," said Aunt Ri. "I don't s'pose I'm much of a
-jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in
-the loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I
-don't remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've
-tried to teach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't
-never learn; it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you
-wuz one o' the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get
-settled in San Bernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all
-I know, 'n' be glad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for
-carpet-weavin' though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not
-but what thar's plenty o' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em;
-pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd say. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs
-hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit for carpet-rags, than any place ever I
-struck. They're drefful sheftless lot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the
-Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say Injuns, I don't never mean yeow,
-yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to me one mite like an Injun."
-
-"Most of our people haven't had any chance," said Ramona. "You
-wouldn't believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to
-them; how they are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their
-homes."
-
-Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in
-Spanish, to Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt
-Ri was aghast; she found no words to express her indignation.
-
-"I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it." she said.
-"Why, they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n
-Tennessee, fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter
-be sent ter tell 'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar."
-
-"I think it's the people in Washington that have done it," said
-Ramona, sadly. "Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?"
-
-"I bleeve so!" said Aunt Ri, "Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't,
-makes the laws?"
-
-"I bleeve so." said Jos. "They make some, at any rate. I donno's
-they make 'em all."
-
-"It is all done by the American law," said Ramona, "all these
-things; nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the
-law he has to be killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff
-told Alessandro, at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula
-people, the sheriff did; but he had to obey the law himself.
-Alessandro says there isn't any help."
-
-Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. "I sh'll make a
-business o' findin' out abaout this thing yit," she said. "I think yer
-hain't got the rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!"
-
-"It's all cheating." said Ramona; "but there isn't any help for it,
-Aunt Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money."
-
-"I'm an Ummeriken!" cried Aunt Ri; "an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're
-Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it,
-not out er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're
-above cheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't
-want any o' this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow
-'tis. Why, it's a burnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think
-something oughter be done abaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself,
-ef thar wan't anybody else!"
-
-A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to
-die for want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of
-impulse to do something. "I ain't nobody," she said; "I know thet
-well enough,-- I ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin'
-to say abaout the country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter
-be; or 't least Jeff hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't
-goin' to rest, nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou
-find aout what all this yere means she's been tellin' us."
-
-But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to
-lands and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All
-summer the baby had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was
-each day possible for Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that
-there had been since yesterday no loss, perhaps a little gain; but
-looking back from the autumn to the spring, and now from the
-winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that she had been
-steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill in the
-snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought.
-Before that, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and
-merry, Now her pinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes
-for hours she made a feeble wailing cry without any apparent
-cause. All the simple remedies that Aunt Ri had known, had failed
-to touch her disease; in fact, Aunt Ri from the first had been
-baffled in her own mind by the child's symptoms. Day after day
-Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands clasped, his face set.
-Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out, he bore her in his
-arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer to the Virgin, to
-the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, though
-money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in
-vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and
-see a doctor. "Find Aunt Ri," she said; "she will go with you, with
-Jos, and talk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri
-she seems just as she did when they were here, only weaker and
-thinner."
-
-Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of
-San Bernardino. "Not to rights yit," she said,-- as if she ever would
-be. Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little
-on pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for
-his mother,-- a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough
-walls, and a roof; one small square window,-- that was all; but if
-Aunt Ri had been presented with a palace, she would not have
-been so well pleased. Already she had woven a rag carpet for
-herself, was at work on one for a neighbor, and had promised as
-many more as she could do before spring; the news of the arrival
-of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch all through the
-lower walks of San Bernardino life. "I wouldn't hev bleeved they
-hed so many rags besides what they're wearin'," said Aunt Ri, as
-sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri had
-gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly,
-impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of
-people, and knew who was who, and what was what, and why,
-among them all, far better than many an old resident of the town.
-
-When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down
-from her high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate,
-and before Alessandro had dismounted, cried: "Ye're jest the man I
-wanted; I've been tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see
-yer, but Jeff couldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh
-abaout off my feet, 'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all?
-Why didn't yer come in ther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got
-heaps ter tell yer. I allowed yer hadn't got the rights o' all them
-things. The Guvvermunt ain't on the side o' the thieves, as yer said.
-I knowed they couldn't be,' an' they've jest sent out a man a purpose
-to look after things fur yer,-- to take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin'
-else. That's what he's here fur. He come last month; he's a reel nice
-man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a spell, last week; I'm gwine to
-make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer
-when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays him; yer don't hev to pay
-nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o' savin', to git yer docterin' fur
-nuthin'!"
-
-Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she
-said. He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his
-broken English he tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to
-do.
-
-"Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by
-the Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer
-ter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive
-down 'n' see her!"
-
-Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him
-enter the door bringing a doctor!
-
-Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house
-as interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not
-understand this new phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they
-walked along, he listened with trembling, half-incredulous hope to
-Jos's interpretation of Aunt Ri's voluble narrative.
-
-The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of
-Alessandro's errand he listened indifferently, and then said, "Is he
-an Agency Indian?"
-
-"A what?" exclaimed Aunt Ri.
-
-"Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency
-books?"
-
-"No," said she; "he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin'
-him, jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He
-lives in Saboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the
-Agent come aout."
-
-"Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?" said the
-doctor, impatiently. "You ought to have taken him to the Agent
-first."
-
-"Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?" asked Aunt Ri,
-wrathfully. "Thet's what I heerd."
-
-"Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't
-true;" and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly,
-Alessandro all the time studying his face with the scrutiny of one
-awaiting life and death; "I am the Agency physician, and I suppose
-all the Indians will sooner or later come in and report themselves
-to the Agent; you'd better take this man over there. What does he
-want now?"
-
-Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the
-doctor said, "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that
-will help her;" and going into an inner room, he brought out a
-bottle of dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and
-handed it to Alessandro, saying, "That will do her good, I guess."
-
-"Thanks, Senor, thanks," said Alessandro.
-
-The doctor stared. "That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this
-office," he said. "You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara
-avis."
-
-"What's that, Jos?" said Aunt Ri, as they went out.
-
-"Donno!" said Jos. "I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no
-good."
-
-Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream.
-Would it make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by
-that great Government in Washington? Was he to be protected
-now? Could this man, who had been sent out to take care of
-Indians, get back his San Pasquale farm for him? Alessandro's
-brain was in a whirl.
-
-From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt
-Ri felt herself more at home.
-
-"I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv," she said, with a
-wave of her hand toward Alessandro. "We've ben ter ther doctor's
-to git some metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd."
-
-The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as
-he did so, "The man's never been here before, has he?"
-
-"No," said Aunt Ri.
-
-"What is his name?"
-
-Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. "Stop
-him." cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. "Don't let him write, till I
-know what he puts my name in his book for!"
-
-"Wait," said Jos. "He doesn't want you to write his name in that
-book. He wants to know what it's put there for."
-
-Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet
-trying to speak kindly, the Agent said: "There's no making these
-Indians understand anything. They seem to think if I have their
-names in my book, it gives me some power over them."
-
-"Wall, don't it?" said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. "Hain't yer got
-any power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer
-got it over? What yer goin' to do for 'em?" 
-
-The Agent laughed in spite of himself. "Well, Aunt Ri," -- she was
-already "Aunt Ri" to the Agent's boys,-- "that's just the trouble with
-this Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all
-my Indians on a reservation."
-
-Alessandro understood the words "my Indians." He had heard them
-before.
-
-"What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?" he asked fiercely. "I will
-not have my name in his book if it makes me his."
-
-When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper.
-"That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him
-go, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!"
-
-"Oh, no, no." cried Aunt Ri. "Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll
-make him understand."
-
-Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him
-exceedingly suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos,
-the first whites except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were
-deceiving him? No; that was impossible. But they themselves
-might be deceived. That they were simple and ignorant,
-Alessandro well knew. "Let us go!" he said. "I do not wish to sign
-any paper."
-
-"Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!" said
-Aunt Ri. "Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him,
-hevin' his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what
-Injuns wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?" she added,
-turning to the Agent. "Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef
-he ain't on the Agency books."
-
-Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might
-save his baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say,
-let the name be written, rather than that.
-
-"Let him write the name, then," said Alessandro, doggedly; but he
-went out of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his
-neck.
-
-XXIII
-
-THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She
-was too feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro
-appeared again at the Agency doctor's door. This time he had come
-with a request which to his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had
-brought Baba for the doctor to ride. Could the doctor then refuse to
-go to Saboba? Baba would carry him there in three hours, and it
-would be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's name was in the
-Agency books. It was for this he had written it,-- for this and
-nothing else,-- to save the baby's life. Having thus enrolled himself
-as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on this the Agency
-.doctor. And that his application might be all in due form, he took
-with him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, before,
-that Aunt Ri's kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not one
-unnecessary word, was Alessandro's motto.
-
-To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to
-ride thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a
-mild statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from
-laughing, when it was made clear to him that this was what the
-Indian father expected.
-
-"Good Lord!" he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be
-lounging in the office. "Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder
-what he thinks the Government pays me a year for doctoring
-Indians!"
-
-Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention.
-"Do you understand English?" he asked sharply.
-
-"A very little, Senor," replied Alessandro.
-
-The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made
-it most emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was
-not only out of the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded.
-For the child's sake he could do it. The horse was at the door; there
-was no such horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the
-wind, and one would not know he was in motion, it was so easy.
-Would not the doctor come down and look at the horse? Then he
-would see what it would be like to ride him.
-
-"Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies," said the doctor. "I
-know they can run."
-
-Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears
-came into his eyes. "It is our only child, Senor," he said. "It will
-take you but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you
-come! If the child dies, she will die."
-
-"No! no!" The doctor was weary of being importuned. "Tell the
-man it is impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go
-about the country this way. They'd be sending for me down to
-Agua Caliente next, and bringing up their ponies to carry me."
-
-"He will not go?" asked Alessandro.
-
-The interpreter shook his head. "He cannot," he said.
-
-Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned.
-"Ask him if he will come for money?" he said. "I have gold at
-home. I will pay him, what the white men pay him."
-
-"Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty
-miles!" said the doctor.
-
-And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that
-he heard the coarse laugh, and the words, "Gold! Looked like it,
-didn't he?" which followed his departure from the room.
-
-When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her
-heart seemed breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since
-noon; she was plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the
-door to the cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking
-each moment for the hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her
-mind that the doctor would not come. She had accepted in much
-fuller faith than Alessandro the account of the appointment by the
-Government of these two men to look after the Indians' interests.
-What else could their coming mean, except that, at last, the Indians
-were to have justice? She thought, in her simplicity, that the doctor
-must have died, since Alessandro was riding home alone.
-
-"He would not come!" said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his
-horse, wearily.
-
-"Would not!" cried Ramona. "Would not! Did you not say the
-Government had sent him to be the doctor for Indians?"
-
-"That was what they said," he replied. "You see it is a lie, like the
-rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The
-child must die, Majella!"
-
-"She shall not die!" cried Ramona. "We will carry her to him!" The
-thought struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not
-thought of it before? "You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back,
-and he will go so gently, she will think it is but play; and I will
-walk by her side, or you, all the way!" she continued. "And we can
-sleep at Aunt Ri's house. Oh, why, why did we not do it before?
-Early in the morning we will start."
-
-All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they
-had ever seen death, they would have known that there was no
-hope for the child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know?
-
-The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was
-ready, ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was
-placed in it, she smiled. "The first smile she has given for days,"
-cried Ramona. "Oh, the air itself will do good to her! Let me walk
-by her first! Come, Baba! Dear Baba!" and Ramona stepped almost
-joyfully by the horse's side, Alessandro riding Benito. As they
-paced along, their eyes never leaving the baby's face, Ramona said,
-in a low tone, "Alessandro, I am almost afraid to tell you what I
-have done. I took the little Jesus out of the Madonna's arms and
-hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the Madonna will
-grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did you ever
-hear of it?"
-
-"Never!" exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. "Never,
-Majella! How dared you?"
-
-"I dare anything now!" said Ramona. "I have been thinking to do it
-for some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till
-she gave me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not
-have courage to sit and look at her all lonely without him in her
-arms, so I did not do it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that
-is the time; and I told her, 'When we come back with our baby
-well, you shall have your little Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother,
-you go with us, and make the doctor cure our baby!' Oh, I have
-heard, many times, women tell the Senora they had done this, and
-always they got what they wanted. Never will she let the Jesus be
-out of her arms more than three weeks before she will grant any
-prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me,
-Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had
-brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her
-only at night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would see.
-So she did not miss him so much; else she had brought you
-quicker."
-
-"But, Majella," said the logical Alessandro, "it was because I could
-not leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried,
-I came."
-
-"If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at
-all," said Ramona, confidently.
-
-For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were
-really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling
-mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to
-love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days.
-But it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes
-drooped, closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro
-saw it first. He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito.
-"Majella!" he cried, in a tone which told her all.
-
-In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the
-dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she
-knew her mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a
-convulsion as of agony swept over the face, then it was at peace.
-Ramona's shrieks were heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro
-away from her, as he strove to caress her. She stretched her arms
-up towards the sky. "I have killed her! I have killed her!" she cried.
-"Oh, let me die!"
-
-Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again.
-
-"Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her
-warm!" gasped Ramona.
-
-Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken
-since his first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she
-would have forgotten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's
-face seemed turned to stone.
-
-When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the
-bed, ran hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin,
-drew from its hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears
-streaming, she laid it again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging
-herself on her knees, sobbed out prayers for forgiveness.
-Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, his arms folded, his eyes
-riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still without speaking.
-Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned aloud,
-and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's
-coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half
-paralyzed, she dressed the little one in fresh white clothes for the
-burial; then laying her in the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful
-lace-wrought altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was
-carried back to the time when she embroidered it, sitting on the
-Senora's veranda; the song of the finches, the linnets; the voice and
-smile of Felipe; Alessandro sitting on the steps, drawing divine
-music from his violin. Was that she, -- that girl who sat there
-weaving the fine threads in the beautiful altar-cloth? Was it a
-hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it Alessandro
-yonder, driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows rang,
-louder and louder! The air seemed deafening full of sound. With
-her hands pressed to her temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A
-merciful unconsciousness set her free, for an interval, from her
-anguish.
-
-When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro
-had lifted her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He
-thought she would die too; and even that thought did not stir him
-from his lethargy. When she opened her eyes, and looked at him,
-he did not speak. She closed them. He did not move. Presently she
-opened them again. "I heard you out there," she said.
-
-"Yes," he replied. "It is done." And he pointed to a little box of
-rough boards by the side of the cradle.
-
-"Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?" he asked.
-
-"Yes, Alessandro, I am ready," she said.
-
-"We will hide forever," he said.
-
-"It makes no difference," she replied.
-
-The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now.
-She had never come into sympathetic relations with them, as she
-had with the women of San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers
-had been a barrier the Saboba people could not surmount. No one
-could be on such terms with whites, and be at heart an Indian, they
-thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. But now in her
-bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight of the
-dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had
-covered the box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown
-over it fell in folds to the floor. "Why does not this mother weep?
-Is she like the whites, who have no heart?" said the Saboba
-mothers among themselves; and they were embarrassed before her,
-and knew not what to say. Ramona perceived it, but had no life in
-her to speak to them. Benumbing terrors, which were worse than
-her grief, were crowding Ramona's heart now. She had offended
-the Virgin; she had committed a blasphemy: in one short hour the
-Virgin had punished her, had smitten her child dead before her
-eyes. And now Alessandro was going mad; hour by hour Ramona
-fancied she saw changes in him. What form would the Virgin's
-vengeance take next? Would she let Alessandro become a raging
-madman, and finally kill both himself and her? That seemed to
-Ramona the most probable fate in store for them. When the funeral
-was over, and they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of
-the empty cradle Ramona broke down.
-
-"Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where!
-anywhere, so it is not here!" she cried.
-
-"Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I
-told her of?" he said.
-
-"No!" she replied earnestly. "No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take
-me away!"
-
-A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. "It is
-well," he said. "My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will
-be safe there."
-
-The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San
-Pasquale again showed itself in his every act. His mind was
-unceasingly at work, planning the details of their move and of the
-new life. He mentioned them one after another to Ramona. They
-could not take both horses; feed would be scanty there, and there
-would be no need of two horses. The cow also they must give up.
-Alessandro would kill her, and the meat, dried, would last them for
-a long time. The wagon he hoped he could sell; and he would buy
-a few sheep; sheep and goats could live well in these heights to
-which they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, very safe; not only
-against whites, who, because the little valley was so small and
-bare, would not desire it, but against Indians also. For the Indians,
-silly things, had a terror of the upper heights of San Jacinto; they
-believed the Devil lived there, and money would not hire one of
-the Saboba Indians to go so high as this valley which Alessandro
-had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these features
-of safety in their hiding-place. "The first time I saw it, Majella,-- I
-believe the saints led me there,-- I said, it is a hiding-place. And
-then I never thought I would be in want of such,-- of a place to
-keep my Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!" And he clasped her to
-his breast with a terrifying passion.
-
-For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley
-was not an easy thing, unless he would give them away.
-Alessandro had hard work to give civil answers to the men who
-wished to buy Benito and the wagon for quarter of their value. He
-knew they would not have dared to so much as name such prices to
-a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt unconquerable
-misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting from their
-most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses and
-wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for
-the winter.
-
-It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if he
-could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the
-chance. "He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves,
-Alessandro," she said. "They would be well cared for; and then, if
-we did not like living on the mountain, we could have the horses
-and wagon again when we came down, or Jos could sell them for
-us in San Bernardino. Nobody could see Benito and Baba working
-together, and not want them."
-
-"Majella is wiser than the dove!" cried Alessandro. "She has seen
-what is the best thing to do. I will take them."
-
-When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with
-him; but with a look of horror she refused. "Never," she cried, "one
-step on that accursed road! I will never go on that road again
-unless it is to be carried, as we brought her, dead."
-
-Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be
-intolerable, spite of all its affectionate kindliness. "Tell her I love
-her," she said, "but I do not want to see a human being yet; next
-year perhaps we will go down,-- if there is any other way besides
-that road."
-
-Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's
-feeling. It rankled deep. "I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her,
-never," she said. "I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her
-head, to do 't! I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've
-got jest thet feelin' abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this
-yer world inter anuther."
-
-The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the
-southern horizon of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight
-from the door of the little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom
-stood. As she sat there hour after hour, sometimes seven hours to
-the day, working the heavy treadle, and slipping the shuttle back
-and forth, she gazed with tender yearnings at the solemn, shining
-summit. When sunset colors smote it, it glowed like fire; on
-cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds.
-
-"'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos," Aunt Ri
-would say. "I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't
-it, ever sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer
-eyes aout, sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air
-into 't; 't can't be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't
-must be like bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He
-sed ther couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but
-hisself. He found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all
-thar is, fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin."
-
-The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the
-very thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as
-yet strong enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San
-Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose
-was at present out of their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to
-accomplish was to have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid
-up to buy one. They had tried in vain to exchange their heavy
-emigrant-wagon for one suitable for light work. "'Pears like I'd die
-o' shame," said Aunt Ri, "sometimes when I ketch myself er
-thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er gettin' thet Injun's hosses an'
-waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez much ez he hez so fur, he's
-goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he cums. I allow ter Jos
-'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll dew good tew days'
-work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest like kittens;
-they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the world, 'n'
-more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a
-child. Pore thing,-- 'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!"
-
-Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It
-went hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew
-him, and came towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had
-pastured her, since the baby died, in a canon about three miles
-northeast of the village,-- a lovely green canon with oak-trees and
-a running brook. It was here that he had thought of building his
-house if they had stayed in Saboba. But Alessandro laughed
-bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream. Already the
-news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for the
-settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold
-to this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the
-valley were all fencing in their lands; no more free running of
-stock. The Saboba people were too poor to build miles of fencing;
-they must soon give up keeping stock; and the next thing would be
-that they would be driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was
-none too soon that he had persuaded Majella to flee to the
-mountain. There, at least, they could live and die in peace,-- a
-poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest of deaths; but they would
-have each other. It was well the baby had died; she was saved all
-this misery. By the time she had grown to be a woman, if she had
-lived, there would be no place in all the country where an Indian
-could find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as these,
-Alessandro went up into the canon one morning. It must be done.
-Everything was ready for their move; it would take many days to
-carry even their few possessions up the steep mountain trail to
-their new home; the pony which had replaced Benito and Baba
-could not carry a heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona
-would dry the beef which would be their supply of meat for many
-months. Then they would go,
-
-At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and
-Ramona began cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion
-of drying. Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the
-afternoon, as Ramona went to and fro about her work, she saw a
-group of horsemen riding from house to house, in the upper part of
-the village; women came running out excitedly from each house as
-the horsemen left it; finally one of them darted swiftly up the hill
-to Ramona. "Hide it! hide it!" she cried, breathless; "hide the meat!
-It is Merrill's men, from the end of the valley. They have lost a
-steer, and they say we stole it. They found the place, with blood on
-it, where it was killed; and they say we did it. Oh, hide the meat!
-They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own, that he
-bought; he did not know anything about their steer!"
-
-"I shall not hide it!" cried Ramona, indignantly. "It is our own cow.
-Alessandro killed it to-day."
-
-"They won't believe you!" said the woman, in distress. "They'll
-take it all away. Oh, hide some of it!" And she dragged a part of it
-across the floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by,
-stupefied.
-
-Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders
-darkened the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse,
-exclaimed: "By God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the
-damnedest impudent thieves! Look at this woman, cutting it up!
-Put that down, will you? We'll save you the trouble of dryin' our
-meat for us, besides killin' it! Fork over, now, every bit you've got,
-you --" And he called Ramona by a vile epithet.
-
-Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she
-came forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. "Out of my
-house, you dogs of the white color!" she said. "This meat is our
-own; my husband killed the creature but this morning."
-
-Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men,
-and they had all swarmed into the little room.
-
-"I say, Merrill," said one of them, "hold on; the squaw says her
-husband only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs."
-
-Ramona turned on him like lightning. "Are you liars, you all," she
-cried, "that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is
-not an Indian in this village would steal cattle!"
-
-A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech;
-and at that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the
-Indian woman had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to
-the bed, and lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef
-hidden there. "Perhaps, when you know Injun's well's I do," he
-said, "you won't be for believin' all they say! What's she got it hid
-under the bed for, if it was their own cow?" and he stooped to drag
-the meat out. "Give us a hand here, Jake!"
-
-"If you touch it, I will kill you!" cried Ramona, beside herself with
-rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming.
-
-"Hoity-toity!" cried Jake, stepping back; "that's a handsome squaw
-when she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She
-wasn't to blame; of course, she believes what her husband told
-her."
-
-"You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!" muttered Merrill, as he
-dragged the meat out from beneath the bed.
-
-"What is all this?" said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona,
-turning, with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking
-on, with an expression which, even in her own terror and
-indignation, gave her a sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He
-had his hand on his gun. "What is all this?" he repeated. He knew
-very well.
-
-"It's that Temecula man," said one of the men, in a low tone, to
-Merrill. "If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you
-come here. You're up the wrong tree, sure!"
-
-Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and
-turned to confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even
-he saw that he had made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro
-interrupted him. Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish.
-Pointing to his pony, which stood at the door with a package on its
-back, the remainder of the meat rolled in the hide, he said: "There
-is the remainder of the beef. I killed the creature this morning, in
-the canon. I will take Senor Merrill to the place, if he wishes it.
-Senor Merrill's steer was killed down in the willows yonder,
-yesterday."
-
-"That's so!" cried the men, gathering around him. "How did you
-know? Who did it?"
-
-Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had
-flung her shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and
-the two were cowering in the corner, their faces turned away.
-Ramona dared not look on; she felt sure Alessandro would kill
-some one. But this was not the type of outrage that roused
-Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt a certain enjoyment
-in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse of searchers for
-stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the stolen steer, he
-maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At last, angry,
-ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his obstinacy,
-they rode away. Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was
-trembling. Her hands were like ice.
-
-"Let us go to the mountain to-night!" she gasped. "Take me where I
-need never see a white face again!"
-
-A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last,
-felt as he did.
-
-"I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no
-house," he said; "and I must go and come many times, before all
-the things can be carried."
-
-"It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro," said Ramona,
-bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with
-which the man Jake had looked at her. "Oh! I cannot stay here!"
-
-"It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's
-pony, to take double at once; then we can go sooner."
-
-"Who was it stole that man's steer?" said Ramona. "Why did you
-not tell them? They looked as if they would kill you."
-
-"It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself
-came on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew
-very well, by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I
-tell? They think only Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the
-Mexicans steal more."
-
-"I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal
-cattle," said Ramona, indignantly.
-
-"That was not true, Majella," replied Alessandro, sadly. "When
-they are very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose
-many themselves, and they say it is not so much harm to take one
-when they can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded twenty
-steers for his own, last spring, when he knew they were Saboba
-cattle!"
-
-"Why did they not make him give them up?" cried Ramona.
-
-"Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no
-help for us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!"
-
-A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to
-Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she
-was haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and
-on one pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of
-some one of the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro
-was away. Every day she saw the man riding past. Once he had
-galloped up to the open door, looked in, spoken in a friendly way
-to her, and ridden on. Ramona's instinct was right. Jake was
-merely biding his time. He had made up his mind to settle in the
-San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and he wished to have
-an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his house. Over
-in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an Indian
-mistress for three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa
-Ysabel, he had given the woman a hundred dollars and a little
-house for herself and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but
-held herself, in consequence of this temporary connection with a
-white man, much above her Indian relatives and friends. When an
-Indian man had wished to marry her, she had replied scornfully
-that she would never marry an Indian; she might marry another
-white man, but an Indian,-- never. Nobody had held his brother in
-any less esteem for this connection; it was quite the way in the
-country. And if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw he had
-ever seen, to come and live with him in a smaller fashion, he
-would consider himself a lucky man, and also think he was doing a
-good thing for the squaw. It was all very clear and simple in his
-mind; and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the village one
-morning, he overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound
-her on the subject, he had small misgivings as to the result.
-Ramona trembled as he approached her. She walked faster, and
-would not look at him; but he, in his ignorance, misinterpreted
-these signs egregiously.
-
-"Are you married to your husband?" he finally said. "It is but a
-poor place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with
-me, you shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the
-Ravallos'; and --" Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry
-which haunted his memory for years, Ramona sprang from his side
-as if to run; then, halting suddenly, she faced him, her eyes like
-javelins, her breath coming fast. "Beast!" she said, and spat
-towards him; then turned and fled to the nearest house, where she
-sank on the floor and burst into tears, saying that the man below
-there in the road had been rude to her. Yes, the women said, he
-was a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona said no word to
-Alessandro. She dared not; she believed he would kill Jake.
-
-When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse,
-and the indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him,
-and said: "I could have told you better than to try that woman.
-She's married, fast enough. There's plenty you can get, though, if
-you want 'em. They're first-rate about a house, and jest's faithful's
-dogs. You can trust 'em with every dollar you've got."
-
-From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till
-she stood on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto.
-Then, gazing around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above,
-which seemed to pierce the sky, looking down upon the world,-- it
-seemed the whole world, so limitless it stretched away at her
-feet,-- feeling that infinite unspeakable sense of nearness to
-Heaven, remoteness from earth which comes only on mountain
-heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, and cried: "At last! at
-last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is joy!"
-
-"Can Majella be content?" he asked.
-
-"I can almost be glad, Alessandro!" she cried, inspired by the
-glorious scene. "I dreamed not it was like this!"
-
-It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft
-to make it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on
-the mountain's side, its western or southwestern end being many
-feet lower than the eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were
-closed by piles of rocks and tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit
-of the mountain itself made the southern wall; the northern was a
-spur, or ridge, nearly vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A
-man might roam years on the mountain and not find this cleft. At
-the upper end gushed out a crystal spring, which trickled rather
-than ran, in a bed of marshy green, the entire length of the valley,
-disappeared in the rocks at the lower end, and came out no more;
-many times Alessandro had searched for it lower down, but could
-find no trace of it. During the summer, when he was hunting with
-Jeff, he had several times climbed the wall and descended it on the
-inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran; and, to his joy, had found it
-the same in July as in January. Drought could not harm it, then.
-What salvation in such a spring! And the water was pure and sweet
-as if it came from the skies.
-
-A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain,
-widening out into almost a plateau. This was covered with
-acorn-bearing oaks; and under them were flat stones worn into
-hollows, where bygone generations of Indians had ground the nuts
-into meal. Generations long bygone indeed, for it was not in the
-memory of the oldest now living, that Indians had ventured so high
-up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to be certain death to climb
-to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to go far up its sides.
-
-There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both
-Alessandro and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death
-was soothed. She did not seem so far off, since they had come so
-much nearer to the sky. They lived at first in a tent; no time to
-build a house, till the wheat and vegetables were planted.
-Alessandro was surprised, when he came to the ploughing, to see
-how much good land he had. The valley thrust itself, in inlets and
-coves, into the very rocks of its southern wall; lovely sheltered
-nooks these were, where he hated to wound the soft, flower-filled
-sward with his plough. As soon as the planting was done, he began
-to fell trees for the house. No mournful gray adobe this time, but
-walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left on; alternate yellow and
-brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. The roof, of thatch,
-tule, and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, was carried out
-several feet in front of the house, making a sort of bower-like
-veranda, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once more
-Ramona would sit under a thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little
-corral for the sheep, and a rough shed for the pony, and the home
-was complete: far the prettiest home they had ever had. And here,
-in the sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat Ramona, plaiting out
-of fragrant willow twigs a cradle. The one over which she had
-wept such bitter tears in the valley, they had burned the night
-before they left their Saboba home. It was in early autumn she sat
-plaiting this cradle. The ground around was strewn with wild
-grapes drying; the bees were feasting on them in such clouds that
-Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive them away, saying,
-as she did so, "Good bees, make our honey from something else;
-we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want these
-grapes for the winter;" and as she spoke, her imagination sped
-fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her,
-to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of
-poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression
-could do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms.
-
-The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the
-same whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live
-with Ramona. She was friendless now, her daughter having died,
-and she thankfully came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was
-ignorant and feeble but Ramona saw in her always the picture of
-what her own mother might perchance be, wandering, suffering,
-she knew not what or where; and her yearning, filial instinct found
-sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, aged one.
-
-Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the
-baby's birth. Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two
-days; but Ramona felt no fear. When Alessandro returned, and she
-laid the child in his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more,
-like the old smiles, "See, beloved! The Virgin has forgiven me; she
-has given us a daughter again!"
-
-But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the
-baby's face, he sighed, and said, "Alas, Majella, her eyes are like
-mine, not yours!"
-
-"I am glad of it," cried Ramona. "I was glad the first minute I saw
-it."
-
-He shook his head. "It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,"
-he said. "They look ever on woe;" and he laid the baby back on
-Ramona's breast, and stood gazing sadly at her.
-
-"Dear Alessandro," said Ramona, "it is a sin to always mourn.
-Father Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a
-heavier cross would be laid on us. Worse things would come."
-
-"Yes," he said. "That is true. Worse things will come." And he
-walked away, with his head sunk deep on his breast.
-
-XXIV
-
-THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too
-deep. His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs
-he had borne, the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and
-most of all on the probable destitution and suffering in store for
-Ramona, consumed itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint,
-active antagonism, might have saved him; but all these were
-foreign to his self-contained, reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so
-slowly that Ramona could not tell on what hour or what day her
-terrible fears first changed to an even more terrible certainty, his
-brain gave way, and the thing, in dread of which he had cried out
-the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon him. Strangely
-enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come, he did not
-know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness
-sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained
-situations; had no recollection of what had happened for an
-interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort
-of sickness; he did not know that during those intervals his acts
-were the acts of a madman; never violent, aggressive, or harmful
-to any one; never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these
-intervals his delusions were always shaped by the bitterest
-experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied that the Americans
-were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off Ramona, and he
-was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac
-swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly
-regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he
-believed he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any
-enclosure he saw, where there were sheep or cattle, go about
-among them, speaking of them to passers-by as his own.
-Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on being
-remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once
-he suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of
-goats, whose he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down
-by the roadside, he buried his head in his hands. "What has
-happened to my memory?" he said. "I must be ill of a fever!" As he
-sat there, the goats, of their own accord, turned and trotted back
-into a corral near by, the owner of which stood, laughing, on his
-doorsill; and when Alessandro came up, said goodnaturedly, "All
-right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my goats, but I thought
-you'd bring 'em back."
-
-Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did
-not interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of
-the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best
-horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of
-the risk there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of
-wandering. His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only
-from the loneliness in which it left her, but from the anxiety she
-felt lest his mental disorder might at any time take a more violent
-and dangerous shape. This anxiety was all the more harrowing
-because she must keep it locked in her own breast, her wise and
-loving instinct telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him
-than the knowledge of his real condition. More than once he
-reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling off his face,
-crying aloud, "The Americans have found us out, Majella! They
-were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way." At such
-times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down
-and rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired,
-she would say, "You were all out of breath when you came in,
-dear. You must not climb so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so."
-
-In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She
-believed Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do
-something for him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in,
-Felipe would help her. But how could she reach Felipe without the
-Senora's knowing it? And, still more, how could she send a letter
-to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing what she had written?
-Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on this mountain eyrie as
-if she had been chained hand and foot.
-
-And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in
-their fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and
-corner. The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long
-and silky; the sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it
-was not yet midsummer. The spring rains had been good; the
-stream was full, and flowers grew along its edges thick as in beds.
-
-The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its
-mother had never known sorrow. "One would think she had
-suckled pain," thought Ramona, "so constantly have I grieved this
-year; but the Virgin has kept her well."
-
-If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for
-night and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt
-before the Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were
-wellnigh worn smooth of all their delicate chasing.
-
-At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San
-Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to
-take the baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to
-send the letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would
-send it for her from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she
-sat plotting what she should say and how she should send it,-- she,
-who had never had in her loyal, transparent breast one thought
-secret from Alessandro since they were wedded. But it was all for
-his sake. When he was well, he would thank her.
-
-She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of
-its being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed
-her pen as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as
-being too sacred a confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last,
-the day before the fete, it was done, and safely hidden away. The
-baby's white robe, finely wrought in open-work, was also done,
-and freshly washed and ironed. No baby would there be at the fete
-so daintily wrapped as hers; and Alessandro had at last given his
-consent that the name should be Majella. It was a reluctant
-consent, yielded finally only to please Ramona; and, contrary to
-her wont, she had been willing in this instance to have her own
-wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon having the
-seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, "If I were to
-die," she thought, "how glad Alessandro would be, to have still a
-Majella!"
-
-All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She
-seated herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had
-been two days away, and was to have returned the previous
-evening, to make ready for the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted
-at his failure to return at the appointed time. As the hours crept on
-and he did not come, her anxiety increased. The sun had gone
-more than an hour past the midheavens before he came. He had
-ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the horse's hoofs on
-the ground before she saw him. "Why comes he riding like that?"
-she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw to her
-surprise that he was riding a new horse. "Why, Alessandro!" she
-cried. "What horse is this?"
-
-He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not
-his own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to
-collect his thoughts. "Where is my horse, then?" he said.
-
-"My God! Alessandro," cried Ramona. "Take the horse back
-instantly. They will say you stole it."
-
-"But I left my pony there in the corral," he said. "They will know I
-did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake?
-I recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the
-sicknesses."
-
-Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what
-summary punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves.
-"Oh, let me take it back, dear!" she cried, "Let me go down with it.
-They will believe me."
-
-"Majella!" he exclaimed, "think you I would send you into the fold
-of the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my
-pony. I was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the
-autumn. And that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I
-have rested. I am heavy with sleep."
-
-Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was
-evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense
-of danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she
-with her own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful
-black horse; Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the
-steep trail, for his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with
-foam. Tears stood in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for
-him. He recognized her good-will, and put his nose to her face. "It
-must be because he was black like Benito, that Alessandro took
-him," she thought. "Oh, Mary Mother, help us to get the creature
-safe back!" she said.
-
-When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona
-glanced at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no
-possibility could Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark.
-She was on the point of waking him, when a furious barking from
-Capitan and the other dogs roused him instantly from his sleep,
-and springing to his feet, he ran out to see what it meant. In a
-moment more Ramona followed,-- only a moment, hardly a
-moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to hear a
-gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the same
-second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over
-Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the
-forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which
-seemed to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like
-thunder, he untied the black horse from the post where Ramona
-had fastened him, and leaping into his saddle again, galloped
-away, leading the horse. As he rode away, he shook his fist at
-Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground, striving to lift
-Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing from the
-ghastly wounds. "That'll teach you damned Indians to leave off
-stealing our horses!" he cried, and with another volley of terrible
-oaths was out of sight.
-
-With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of
-grief, Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his
-hands in hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot
-had been fatal, close to his heart,-- the murderer aimed well; the
-after-shots, with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After
-a few seconds Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the
-white altar-cloth, and laid it over the mutilated face. As she did
-this, she recalled words she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as
-having been said by Father Junipero, when one of the Franciscan
-Fathers had been massacred by the Indians, at San Diego. "Thank
-God." he said, "the ground is now watered by the blood of a
-martyr!"
-
-"The blood of a martyr!" The words seemed to float in the air; to
-cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken.
-"My Alessandro!" she said. "Gone to be with the saints; one of the
-blessed martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says." His hands
-were warm. She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and
-again. Stretching herself on the ground by his side, she threw one
-arm over him, and whispered in his ear, "My love, my Alessandro!
-Oh, speak once to Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My
-Alessandro! Is he not blest already? And soon we will be with him!
-The burdens were too great. He could not bear them!" Then waves
-of grief broke over her, and she sobbed convulsively; but still she
-shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and looked wildly
-around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither should she go
-for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the sheep,
-and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there on
-the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out
-of the question. There was another Indian village nearer,-- the
-village of the Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto.
-She had once been there. Could she find that trail now? She must
-try. There was no human help nearer,
-
-Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing
-him, whispered, "Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I
-go to bring friends." As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who
-had been lying by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls,
-bounded to his feet to follow her. "No, Capitan," she said; and
-leading him back to the body, she took his head in her hands,
-looked into his eyes, and said, "Capitan, watch here." With a
-whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and stretched himself on the
-ground. He understood, and would obey; but his eyes followed her
-wistfully till she disappeared from sight.
-
-The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona
-stopped, baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her
-clothes were torn, her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her
-feet seemed leaden, she made her way so slowly. It was dark in the
-ravines; as she climbed spur after spur, and still saw nothing but
-pine forests or bleak opens, her heart sank within her. The way had
-not seemed so long before. Alessandro had been with her; it was a
-joyous, bright day, and they had lingered wherever they liked, and
-yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her that she was lost. If
-that were so, before morning she would be with Alessandro; for
-fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake,
-she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just as it had
-grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before her,
-and was panting more from terror than from running, lights
-suddenly gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla
-village. In a few moments she was there,
-
-It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village, -- a cluster
-of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken
-ground, on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are
-proud and high-spirited,-- veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce
-and independent.
-
-Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he
-had been murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the
-mountain, with her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire
-through the place. The people gathered in an excited group around
-the house where Ramona had taken refuge. She was lying, half
-unconscious, on a bed. As soon as she had gasped out her terrible
-story, she had fallen forward on the floor, fainting, and the baby
-had been snatched from her arms just in time to save it. She did
-not seem to miss the child; had not asked for it, or noticed it when
-it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to be fast
-stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words enough to set
-the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and higher. Men
-were everywhere mounting their horses,-- some to go up and bring
-Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to
-Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men,
-friends of Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village
-implored them to refrain from such violence.
-
-"Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?" he said. "Will
-you leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will
-kill us all if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves
-will punish him."
-
-A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their
-experience had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian.
-The Capitan knew that as well as they did. Why did he command
-them to sit still like women, and do nothing, when a friend was
-murdered?
-
-"Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in
-vain," said the wise old man. "It is not sweet to me, any more than
-to you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid
-you to go."
-
-The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men
-abandoned their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and
-mutterings were to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come
-yet. There was more than one way of killing a man. Farrar would
-not be long seen in the valley. Alessandro should be avenged.
-
-As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered
-horse, he revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few
-years before, he would have gone home, no more disquieted at
-having killed an Indian than if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But
-things were different now. This Agent, that the Government had
-taken it into its head to send out to look after the Indians, had
-made it hot, the other day, for some fellows in San Bernardino
-who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so far as to arrest
-several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to Indians. If he
-were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might be
-troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to
-make a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering
-himself up at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having
-killed a man in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the
-house of a Judge Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that
-he wished to surrender himself as having committed "justifiable
-homicide" on an Indian, or Mexican, he did net know which, who
-had stolen his horse. He told a plausible story. He professed not to
-know the man, or the place; but did not explain how it was, that,
-knowing neither, he had gone so direct to the spot.
-
-He said: "I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a
-turn, I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think
-the horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the
-track. I pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks
-again in soft ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly
-unknown to me, and very wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from
-which I looked down on a little ranch. As I came near the house,
-the dogs began to bark, just as I discovered my horse tied to a tree.
-Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or Mexican, I could not tell which,
-came out of the house, flourishing a large knife. I called out to
-him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered in Spanish, 'It is mine.'
-'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San Jacinto,' was his reply. As
-he still came towards me, brandishing the knife, I drew my gun,
-and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop, and I fired; still he
-did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not fall, I knocked him
-down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I shot him twice
-with my pistol."
-
-The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the
-prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of
-six men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican;
-and early the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the
-mountain. When they reached the ranch, the body had been
-removed; the house was locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the
-day before, except a few blood-stains on the ground, where
-Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this
-unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he found that Judge
-Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley that night,
-proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles from the
-Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright. He
-declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in
-the night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with
-him to guard him.
-
-At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan
-and head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival
-with his jury, and they had come to lead them to their village,
-where the body of the murdered man lay. They were greatly
-distressed on learning that they ought not to have removed the
-body from the spot where the death had taken place, and that now
-no inquest could be held.
-
-Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the
-body, and heard the full account of the murder as given by
-Ramona on her first arrival. Nothing more could now be learned
-from her, as she was in high fever and delirium; knew no one, not
-even her baby when they laid it on her breast. She lay restlessly
-tossing from side to side, talking incessantly, clasping her rosary in
-her hands, and constantly mingling snatches of prayers with cries
-for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token of consciousness she
-gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes hide it in her
-bosom, if they attempted to take it from her.
-
-Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally
-inclined; but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the
-unconscious Ramona.
-
-Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place
-immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his
-request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time
-for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed
-upon the Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having
-her appear. It was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was
-false from first to last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had
-time to go many steps from the door; the volley of oaths, and the
-two shots almost simultaneously, were what Ramona heard as she
-ran to the door. Alessandro could not have spoken many words.
-
-The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval,
-in a merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his
-business, on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for
-the trial. It was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that
-Judge Wells saw the hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on
-the ground except Farrar himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian,
-the whole country knew. This last outrage was only one of a long
-series; the judge would have been glad to have committed him for
-trial, and have seen him get his deserts. But San Jacinto Valley,
-wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as fixed standards and
-criterions of popularity as the most civilized of communities could
-show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more than any
-man's political head was worth. The word "justice" had lost its
-meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned.
-The valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might
-be upon others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it
-was not without a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed,
-and unfaithful to a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet,
-on the whole, he was relieved when he was forced to accede to the
-motion made by Farrar's counsel, that "the prisoner be discharged
-on ground of justifiable homicide, no witnesses having appeared
-against him."
-
-He comforted himself by thinking -- what was no doubt true -- that
-even if the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would
-have been the same; for there would never have been found a San
-Diego County jury that would convict a white man of murder for
-killing an Indian, if there were no witnesses to the occurrence
-except the Indian wife. But he derived small comfort from this.
-Alessandro's face haunted him, and also the memory of Ramona's,
-as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched Cahuilla hovel. He
-knew that only her continued illness, or her death, could explain
-her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have brought
-her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in
-possession of her senses.
-
-During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he
-had seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare
-quality. His children knew her and loved her; had often been in her
-house; his wife had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had
-worked for him; and no one knew better than Judge Wells that
-Alessandro in his senses was as incapable of stealing a horse as
-any white man in the valley. Farrar knew it; everybody knew it.
-Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits of wandering mind;
-and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, he was wholly
-irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of Farrar's
-deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from
-having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by
-ungovernable rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what
-he did. "But he wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!"
-mused the judge. "He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white
-man down, that way."
-
-Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he
-could not shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something
-to Ramona, or, if Ramona were dead, to the little child she had
-left, haunted him. There might in some such way be a sort of
-atonement made to the murdered, unavenged Alessandro. He
-might even take the child, and bring it up in his own house. That
-was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The longer he
-thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this
-purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he
-would go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done.
-
-But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to
-Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the
-way.
-
-XXV
-
-EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun
-his search for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found
-few Indians in the place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's
-name. Six miles from the town was a little settlement of them, in
-hiding, in the bottoms of the San Carlos River, near the old
-Mission. The Catholic priest advised him to search there;
-sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another took refuge
-in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then disappeared
-as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; equally
-in vain.
-
-He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had
-heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain
-would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his
-crew.
-
-"But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could
-turn his hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter."
-
-"That might be," they said; "nobody had ever heard of any such
-thing, however;" and very much they all wondered what it was that
-made the handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find
-this Indian.
-
-Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to
-hope, he lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship
-that had sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned.
-Whenever he heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the
-shore, and closely watched the disembarking. His melancholy
-countenance, with its eager, searching look, became a familiar
-sight to every one; even the children knew that the pale gentleman
-was looking for some one he could not find. Women pitied him,
-and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could look like that
-for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made no
-confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met,
-for an Indian named Alessandro Assis.
-
-Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place,
-and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which
-the Franciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the
-California coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission.
-Felipe had heard Father Salvierderra say that there were in the
-neighborhood of each of the old Missions Indian villages, or
-families still living. He thought it not improbable that, from
-Alessandro's father's long connection with the San Luis Rey
-Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of these Indians. He
-would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; no
-Indian unquestioned.
-
-San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San
-Miguel, San Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to
-Santa Barbara. He had spent two months on the journey. At each
-of these places he found Indians; miserable, half-starved creatures,
-most of them. Felipe's heart ached, and he was hot with shame, at
-their condition. The ruins of the old Mission buildings were sad to
-see, but the human ruins were sadder. Now Felipe understood why
-Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and why his mother had
-been full of such fierce indignation against the heretic usurpers
-and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans once held. He
-could not understand why the Church had submitted, without
-fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the
-Missions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those
-Fathers who had clung to their congregations to the last, and died
-at their posts. At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the
-grave of Father Sarria, who had died there of starvation. "He gave
-us all he had, to the last," said the old man. "He lay on a raw-hide
-on the ground, as we did; and one morning, before he had finished
-the mass, he fell forward at the altar and was dead. And when we
-put him in the grave, his body was only bones, and no flesh; he had
-gone so long without food, to give it to us."
-
-At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They
-knew very little, these northern Indians, about those in the south,
-they said. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came
-northward. They did not understand each other's speech. The more
-Felipe inquired, and the longer he reflected, the more he doubted
-Alessandro's having ever gone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he
-made a long stay. The Brothers at the College welcomed him
-hospitably. They had heard from Father Salvierderra the sad story
-of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, that no traces had
-been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to the last, they
-said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get any
-certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day
-before he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young
-Brazilian monk, to whom he was greatly attached.
-
-In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a
-terrible omen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier
-heart than before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some
-unknown, unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not
-give up the search. As he journeyed southward, he began to find
-persons who had known of Alessandro; and still more, those who
-had known his father, old Pablo. But no one had heard anything of
-Alessandro's whereabouts since the driving out of his people from
-Temecula; there was no knowing where any of those Temecula
-people were now. They had scattered "like a flock of ducks," one
-Indian said,-- "like a flock of ducks after they are fired into. You'd
-never see all those ducks in any one place again. The Temecula
-people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San Diego
-County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano,
-however. The Senor would better see him. He no doubt knew
-about Alessandro. He was living in a room in the old Mission
-building. The priest had given it to him for taking care of the
-chapel and the priest's room, and a little rent besides. He was a
-hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; he would take the last
-dollar from a poor man."
-
-It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but
-he could not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first
-clew he had gained. He found the man, with his wife and children,
-in a large corner room opening on the inner court of the Mission
-quadrangle. The room was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire
-smouldered in the enormous fireplace; a few skins and rags were
-piled near the hearth, and on these lay the woman, evidently ill.
-The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the feet; the wind swept in at
-a dozen broken places in the corridor side of the wall; there was
-not an article of furniture. "Heavens!" thought Felipe, as he
-entered, "a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole as this!"
-
-There was no light in the place, except the little which came from
-the fire. "I am sorry I have no candle, Senor," said the man, as he
-came forward. "My wife is sick, and we are very poor."
-
-"No matter," said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. "I only want
-to ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me."
-
-"Yes, Senor," the man replied in a dogged tone,-- no man of
-Temecula could yet hear the word without a pang,-- "I was of
-Temecula."
-
-"I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew
-him, I suppose," said Felipe, eagerly.
-
-At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one
-second a bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark
-again. But the swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a
-start which he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the
-Indian had recognized him. "Ha, ha!" he thought to himself. "Senor
-Felipe Moreno, you come to the wrong house asking for news of
-Alessandro Assis!"
-
-It was Antonio,-- Antonio, who had been at the Moreno
-sheep-shearing; Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had
-known, for he knew what a marvel and miracle it seemed that the
-beautiful Senorita from the Moreno house should have loved
-Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on the night she
-went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral a
-beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about
-it,-- Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in
-his forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a
-horse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now,
-though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of
-him. Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much
-help might he get from Antonio!
-
-"Yes, Senor, I knew him," he replied.
-
-"Do you know where he is now?"
-
-"No, Senor."
-
-"Do you know where he went, from Temecula?"
-
-"No, Senor."
-
-"A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking
-for him."
-
-"I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey."
-
-"Where did you see him last?"
-
-"In Temecula."
-
-"Was he alone?"
-
-"Yes, Senor."
-
-"Did you ever hear of his being married?"
-
-"No, Senor."
-
-"Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?"
-
-"Like this, Senor," with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. "Most
-of us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to
-Capitan Grande, some way down into Lower California."
-
-Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion
-that the man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a
-sigh, he said, "I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I
-am greatly disappointed.
-
-"I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno," thought Antonio. "I am
-sorry, Senor," he said.
-
-It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous
-gold-piece, and said, "Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to
-see you so poorly off."
-
-The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so
-remorseful did he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them.
-How well they had fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie
-to him; yet the first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be
-avoided. And thus a second time help drifted away from Ramona.
-
-At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true
-intelligence of Alessandro's movements; but at first it only
-confirmed his worst forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs.
-Hartsel's house; he had been alone, and on foot; he was going to
-walk all the way to San Pasquale, where he had the promise of
-work.
-
-How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact
-truth. After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of
-events, she fixed the time so nearly to the true date, that it was to
-Felipe's mind a terrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he
-thought, about a week after Ramona's flight from home that
-Alessandro had appeared thus, alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In
-great destitution, she said; and she had lent him money on the
-expectation of selling his violin; but they had never sold it; there it
-was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, she had no more doubt
-than that she herself was alive; for else, he would have come back
-to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that ever lived, was
-Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he not found
-him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro
-and his father. If there had been, it would have been better for their
-people. "If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you," she said, "it
-would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put
-them out of their homes here."
-
-"But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?" asked
-Felipe. "The law was against them. We can't any of us go against
-that. I myself have lost half my estate in the same way."
-
-"Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!" she
-said. "'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said."
-
-Felipe asked to see the violin. "But that is not Alessandro's," he
-exclaimed. "I have seen his."
-
-"No!" she said. "Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the
-Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were
-driven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of
-money, if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not
-come along yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll
-get our money back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been
-here long before this."
-
-Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell
-her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered
-her at first. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she
-sprang to her feet, and cried: "If he's got that girl with him, he's
-hiding somewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he
-is hiding, every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your
-breath asking any questions of any of them. They will die before
-they will tell you one thing. They are as secret as the grave. And
-they, every one of them, worshipped Alessandro. You see they
-thought he would be over them, after Pablo, and they were all
-proud of him because he could read and write, and knew more
-than most of them. If I were in your place," she continued, "I
-would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now it might
-just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here, hid
-somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged
-him to stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know,
-though, where he could possibly have left her while he came here."
-
-Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so
-astonished as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that
-Alessandro might yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.
-
-"If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel," he
-said as he rode away; "and we will come by this road and stop to
-see you." And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the
-way to San Pasquale,
-
-But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged
-into a perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt.
-He found the village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses
-deserted, the remainder of the people preparing to move away. In
-the house of Ysidro, Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white
-family,-- the family of a man who had pre-empted the greater part
-of the land on which the village stood. Ysidro, profiting by
-Alessandro's example, when he found that there was no help, that
-the American had his papers from the land-office, in all due form,
-certifying that the land was his, had given the man his option of
-paying for the house or having it burned down. The man had
-bought the house; and it was only the week before Felipe arrived,
-that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and chattels, for Mesa
-Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more, the people
-said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidro did
-not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He
-went to the north. That was all they knew.
-
-To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly
-searched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see
-the house in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the
-south side of the valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some
-Americans lived in it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the
-best wheat in the valley. The American had paid Alessandro
-something for it,-- they did not know how much; but Alessandro
-was very lucky to get anything. If only they had listened to him. He
-was always telling them this would come. Now it was too late for
-most of them to get anything for their farms. One man had taken
-the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's house
-because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. They
-were utterly disheartened, broken-spirited.
-
-In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses.
-"Where are you going?" he asked of several.
-
-"Who knows, Senor?" was their reply. "Where can we go? There is
-no place."
-
-When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife,
-Felipe heard her spoken of as "Majella," his perplexity deepened.
-Finally he asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona.
-
-"Never."
-
-What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another
-Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe
-bethought himself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know
-where Alessandro had married this wife of his, of whom every
-word they spoke seemed both like and unlike Ramona?
-
-Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father
-Gaspara.
-
-Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and
-here, as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who
-would at his first word have understood all, but a young Irish
-priest, who had only just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant.
-Father Gaspara was away in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But
-the young assistant would do equally well, to examine the records.
-He was courteous and kind; brought out the tattered old book, and,
-looking over his shoulder, his breath coming fast with excitement
-and fear, there Felipe read, in Father Gaspara's hasty and blotted
-characters, the fatal entry of the names, "Alessandro Assis and
-Majella Fa --"
-
-Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never
-have been married under any but her own name. Who, then, was
-this woman whom Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten
-days from the night on which Ramona had left her home? Some
-Indian woman for whom he felt compassion, or to whom he was
-bound by previous ties? And where, in what lonely, forever hidden
-spot, was the grave of Ramona?
-
-Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless
-searching farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless
-conjectures took one more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter
-to every priest between San Diego and Monterey, asking if there
-were on his books a record of the marriage of one Alessandro
-Assis and Ramona Ortegna.
-
-It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another
-Alessandro Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of
-thousands of Indian converts, were sore put to it to make out
-names enough. There might have been another Assis besides old
-Pablo, and of Alessandros there were dozens everywhere.
-
-This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an
-Alessandro Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book.
-
-As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian
-man and woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two
-little children, two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in
-among the bundles that their faces were the only part of them in
-sight. The woman was crying bitterly. "More of these exiles. God
-help the poor creatures!" thought Felipe; and he pulled out his
-purse, and gave the woman a piece of gold. She looked up in as
-great astonishment as if the money had fallen from the skies.
-"Thanks! Thanks, Senor!" she exclaimed; and the man coming up
-to Felipe said also, "God reward you, Senor! That is more money
-than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I
-could get work?"
-
-Felipe longed to say, "Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have
-work!" In the olden time he would have done it without a second
-thought, for both the man and the woman had good faces,-- were
-young and strong. But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even
-now too long for its dwindled fortunes. "No, my man, I am sorry to
-say I do not," he answered. "I live a long way from here. Where
-were you thinking of going?"
-
-"Somewhere in San Jacinto," said the man. "They say the
-Americans have not come in there much yet. I have a brother
-living there. Thanks, Senor; may the saints reward you!"
-
-"San Jacinto!" After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his
-thoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had
-known well in many a distant horizon. "Juan Can," he said one
-day, "are there many Indians in San Jacinto?"
-
-"The mountain?" said Juan Can.
-
-"Ay, I suppose, the mountain," said Felipe. "What else is there?"
-
-"The valley, too," replied Juan. "The San Jacinto Valley is a fine,
-broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is
-mostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing.
-There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the
-San Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is
-a big village; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh,
-they are fierce, Senor!"
-
-The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one
-mentioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages?
-Perhaps there were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in
-Felipe's impressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a
-moment, might see him both lifted up and cast down. When he
-rode into the sleepy little village street of San Bernardino, and
-saw, in the near horizon, against the southern sky, a superb
-mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights from turquoise to
-ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to himself, "She is
-there! I have found her!"
-
-The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected
-Aunt Ri, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed,
-yet hidden. "San Jacinto?" he said to a bystander, pointing to it
-with his whip.
-
-"Yes, Senor," replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses
-came whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side,
-narrowly escaping being knocked down. "That Tennessee fellow'll
-run over somebody yet, with those black devils of his, if he don't
-look out," he muttered, as he recovered his balance.
-
-Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his
-horse's sides, galloped after them. "Baba! by God!" he cried aloud
-in his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse
-faster, shouting as he rode, "Stop that man! Stop that man with the
-black horses!"
-
-Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and
-Baba as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to
-see what had happened. Before he had time to ask any questions,
-Felipe had overtaken him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had
-flung himself from his own horse and taken Baba by the rein,
-crying, "Baba! Baba!" Baba knew his voice, and began to whinny
-and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For the second, he forgot
-everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It had never been
-quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title to Benito and
-Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise, therefore, to
-some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud voice, looking
-suspiciously at Jos, "How did you get him?"
-
-Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live,
-nor could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his
-constitutional drawl. Before even beginning his answer he crossed
-one leg over the other and took a long, observant look at Felipe;
-then in a pleasant voice he said: "Wall, Senor,-- I allow yer air a
-Senor by yer color,-- it would take right smart uv time tew tell
-yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the other one tew. They ain't
-mine, neither one on 'em."
-
-Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to
-Ramona, Jos saw it, and chuckled.
-
-"Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk
-Mexican," he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good
-Spanish the sum and substance of what he had just said, adding:
-"They belong to an Indian over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one
-does; the nigh one's his wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one
-anything but hers. It had been hers ever sence she was a girl, they
-said, I never saw people think so much of hosses as they did."
-
-Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the
-wagon, throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and
-crying, "Follow along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this
-man."
-
-Found! Found,-- the saints be praised,-- at last! How should he tell
-this man fast enough? How should he thank him enough?
-
-Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: "I can't explain to you; I
-can't tell you. Bless you forever,-- forever! It must be the saints led
-you here!"
-
-"Oh, Lawd!" thought Jos; "another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow
-not, Senor," he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. "It wur Tom
-Wurmsee led me; I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this
-arternoon."
-
-"Take me home with you to your house," said Felipe, still
-trembling with excitement; "we cannot talk here in the street. I
-want to hear all you can tell me about them. I have been searching
-for them all over California."
-
-Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle,
-sweet Ramona, he was sure. "I'll take you straight there," he said;
-"but first I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me."
-
-The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their
-anticipated scene of an arrest for horse-stealing. "Good for you,
-Tennessee!" and, "Fork over that black horse, Jos!" echoed from
-the departing groups. Sensations were not so common in San
-Bernardino that they could afford to slight so notable an occasion
-as this.
-
-As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his
-mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half
-off her head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair.
-
-"Why, thar's mammy!" he exclaimed. "What ever hez gone wrong
-naow?"
-
-Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and
-snatching her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, "Yeow
-Jos! Jos, hyar! Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!"
-
-Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound
-of the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by
-Jos's side. "Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun
-Alessandro's got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no
-less. Thar wuz an Injun come down from ther mounting with a
-letter to the Agent."
-
-"Good God! Alessandro killed!" burst from Felipe's lips in a
-heart-rending voice.
-
-Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the
-complication was almost beyond him. "Oh, Lawd!" he gasped.
-Turning to Felipe, "Thet's mammy," he said. "She wuz real fond o'
-both on 'em." Turning to his mother, "This hyar's her brother," he
-said. "He jest knowed me by Baba, hyar on ther street. He's been
-huntin' 'em everywhar."
-
-Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes,
-she sobbed out: "Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a
-Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less
-brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother
-Feeleepy, ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh,
-Lawd! How air we ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I
-allow she'd never live arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me
-thar couldn't nobody git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I
-mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!"
-
-Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to
-Jos. "Tell me in Spanish,." he said. "I cannot understand."
-
-As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's
-excited and incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned
-aloud, "Too late! Too late!" He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that
-Ramona never could have survived the shock of seeing her
-husband murdered. "Too late! Too late!" he cried, as he staggered
-into the house. "She has surely died of the sight."
-
-"I allow she didn't die, nuther," said Jos; "not ser long ez she hed
-thet young un to look arter!"
-
-"Yer air right, Jos!" said Aunt Ri. "I allow yer air right. Thar
-couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby
-'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's
-some comfort."
-
-Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up,
-he said, "How far is it?"
-
-"Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz," said Jos; "'n'
-the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they
-wuz livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San
-Jacinto Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with
-Alessandro."
-
-How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name
-thus familiarly spoken,-- spoken by persons who had known him
-so recently, and who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of
-his terrible death! Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing
-himself, he said, "We must go. We must start at once. You will let
-me have the horses?"
-
-"Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n --" began Jos,
-energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he
-completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at
-Felipe's command.
-
-"Jos! He's got ter take me!" cried Aunt Ri. "I allow I ain't never
-gwine ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be ez
-she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by
-hisself."
-
-Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and
-expressed himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.
-
-"Yeow tell him, Jos," she said, "I can't never git used ter bein'
-called Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n'
-I jest wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears
-like I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the
-fust. I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do
-ter these low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,-- a heap more; but I
-can't stand bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word
-for 'aunt' in Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no
-langwedge 'thout sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off
-with him a heap easier ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm
-used ter, or Mis Hyer, either un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the
-nateralest."
-
-Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San
-Jacinto. She laughed.
-
-"Don't yeow be a mite oneasy," she said. "I bet yeow I'd go clean
-back ter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on
-'t 'n my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer,
-couldn't begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up
-the mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But
-thar'll be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't
-gwine to get hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a
-mite afeerd."
-
-Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence
-enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for
-their thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would
-have at first appeared. They understood each other well enough for
-practical purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for
-Ramona, made a bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced
-by words.
-
-It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full
-moon made the night as good as day for their journey. When it first
-shone out, Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, "Thet's lucky."
-
-"Yes," replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she
-had spoken, "it is good. It shows to us the way."
-
-"Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!" thought Aunt Ri.
-
-Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they
-were hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging
-once, when Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the
-road, the only one they had seen for many miles, said: "We'll hev
-to sleep hyar. I donno the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter
-bed; but they'll hev to git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it.
-They dew consid'able business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're
-reel friendly fur the kind o' people they air. They're druv to death.
-It can't be far frum their time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every
-mornin' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an'
-gittin' ready fur the day's work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when
-we wuz campin' here. The fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody
-wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o' night; but
-arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but thar reggerlar way.
-When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz
-gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed theirselves tew.
-They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes washed, too,
-afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys, terrible pious.
-I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin' in God; I don't
-allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but they don't
-worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much.
-Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech
-doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur
-sleepin'; 'n' I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these
-Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer! -- Lawd!
-I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!" thought
-Aunt Ri to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless
-bewilderment on Felipe's face. "'Tain't much use sayin' anything
-more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks thet can't understand each
-other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret
-use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between folks thet doos!"
-
-When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the
-mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him
-from taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited
-horses like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a
-cruel road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound,
-doubling and tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a
-goat or chamois. Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.
-
-"I'm gwine whar he goes," she said grimly to herself. "I ain't a
-gwine ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz
-along."
-
-Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The
-road had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it
-was at perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in
-ravines till it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a
-saw-mill. Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods,
-some fifteen miles farther on, and then came out among vast
-opens, meadows, and grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic
-mountain's northern or eastern slopes. From these, another steep
-road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla
-village. A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from
-Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the
-last part of the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged that
-one of the younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should
-also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By
-the help of these the terrible ascent was made without difficulty,
-though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the humiliation
-of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail.
-
-Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have
-experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on
-the precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west
-broadened, until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their
-feet. The pines were grand; standing, they seemed shapely
-columns; fallen, the upper curve of their huge yellow disks came
-above a man's head, so massive was their size. On many of them
-the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by myriads of
-bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away an
-acorn,-- the woodpeckers' granaries.
-
-"Look at thet, naow!" exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; "an' thar's
-folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways
-dumb to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we
-air ketched with furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself
-with this hyar Mexican I'm er travellin' with."
-
-"That's so!" replied Sam Merrill. "When we fust got here, I thought
-I'd ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans
-sense my meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now
-I can talk their lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow;
-he hain't learned the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years
-longer'n we have."
-
-The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as
-she chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could
-she chatter! But when he thought this, it would chance that in a
-few moments more he would see her clandestinely wiping away
-tears, and his heart would warm to her again.
-
-They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early
-dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As
-their carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people
-was to be seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable
-carriage drawn by four horses had never before taken place in the
-village. The agitation into which the people had been thrown by
-the murder of Alessandro had by no means subsided; they were all
-on the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence. The news had
-only just reached the village that Farrar had been set at liberty, and
-would not be punished for his crime, and the flames of indignation
-and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much
-difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth again this
-morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces
-which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the
-Capitan's house.
-
-Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance,
-and contempt. "Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash
-ever I laid eyes on," she said in a low tone to Merrill, "I allow
-these yere air the wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest
-abaout a minnit, if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we
-air in a scrape, I allow."
-
-"Oh, they're friendly enough," laughed Merrill. "They're all stirred
-up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look
-so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar
-did, a firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for
-killin' the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken
-a good horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock
-men've got out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But
-it was a mean, low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces
-after he was dead; but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so
-mad, when he see his horse, that he didn't know what he did."
-
-Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech.
-Felipe had leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with
-the old Capitan, had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had
-evidently forgotten that she was still in the carriage. His going into
-the house looked as if Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her
-indignation and astonishment, was conscious of this train of
-thought running through her mind; but not even the near prospect
-of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make her defer
-replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard. The
-words seemed to choke her as she began. "Young man," she said,
-"I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz
-great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet
-way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,-- he's jest abaout
-yeour age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,-- ef I should
-hear him say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see
-him struck by lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his
-deserts, I allow I sh'dn't!"
-
-What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was
-never known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the
-door, beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground,
-sternly rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house.
-As she crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face
-toward her, and said, "Come, speak to her." He was on his knees
-by a wretched pallet on the floor. Was that Ramona,-- that
-prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet,
-hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands of one crazed, with a
-rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and it was like this she
-had lain there now ten days; and the people had exhausted all their
-simple skill for her in vain.
-
-Aunt Ri burst into tears. "Oh, Lawd!" she said. "Ef I had some 'old
-man' hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some
-on 't growin' not more'n er mile back." And without a second look,
-or another word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the
-carriage, said, speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for
-thirty years: "Yeow jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the
-way we come. I allow I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster,
-faster! Run yer hosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it,"
-she cried, leaning out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren
-ground. "Stop! Here 'tis!" she cried. "I knowed I smelt the bitter on
-'t somewhars along hyar;" and in a few minutes more she had a
-mass of the soft, shining, gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and
-was urging the horses fiercely on their way back. "This'll cure her,
-ef ennything will," she said, as she entered the room again; but her
-heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes roving restlessly over Felipe's
-face, no sign of recognition in them. "She's bad," she said, her lips
-trembling; "but, 'never say die!' ez allers our motto; 'tain't never
-tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' yer can't tell when thet time's
-come till it's past 'n' gone."
-
-Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at
-Ramona's nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop
-of it between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head,
-her own hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but
-love and life won. Before night Ramona was asleep.
-
-Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial
-watchers, each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night
-long Ramona slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his
-own fever, and how she had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He
-glanced around the room. In a niche in the mud wall was a cheap
-print of the Madonna, one candle just smouldering out before it.
-The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken
-stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and Ramona during
-the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold;
-taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's
-picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he
-were alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on
-their knees, and a low-whispered murmur was heard.
-
-For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with
-contempt. "Oh, Lawd!" she thought, "the pore heathen, prayin' ter a
-picter!" Then a sudden revulsion seized her. "I allow I ain't gwine
-ter be the unly one out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev
-nothin' ter pray ter; I allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say
-mine ter no picter!" And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a
-young Indian woman by her side slipped a rosary into her hand,
-Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it in the folds of her gown till
-the prayers were done. It was a moment and a lesson Aunt Ri
-never forgot.
-
-XXVI
-
-THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the
-light streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe
-and Aunt Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered
-terror, she gazed at them.
-
-"Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep
-agin, honey," said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on
-Ramona's eyelids, and compelling them down. "We air hyar,
-Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be
-afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter sleep, honey."
-
-The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their
-way, and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the
-voice strove to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper,
-the faint question that came,-- "Felipe?"
-
-"Yes, dear! I am here, too," breathed Felipe; "go to sleep. We will
-not leave you!"
-
-And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was
-saving her life.
-
-"Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better," said Aunt Ri, with a sigh,
-deep-drawn like a groan. "I allow I dread ter see her reely come to.
-'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!"
-
-But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been
-gathering in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of
-her gentle constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which
-martyrs are made; this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made
-her strong, as were those of old, who "had trial of cruel mocking,
-wandering about, being destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in
-deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth."
-
-When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost
-beatific smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, "How did
-you find me, dear Felipe?" It was rather by the motions of her lips
-than by any sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength
-enough to make an audible sound. When they laid her baby on her
-breast, she smiled again, and tried to embrace her, but was too
-weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, she whispered, gazing earnestly
-at Felipe, "Alessandro." A convulsion passed over her face as she
-spoke the word, and the tears flowed.
-
-Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who
-promptly responded: "Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good
-fur ye; 'n' Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer
-strong 'n' well, 'n' tote ye out er this --" Aunt Ri stopped. No
-substantive in her vocabulary answered her need at that moment. "I
-allow ye kin go 'n a week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see
-naow; but ef yer git ter talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up.
-Yeow jest shet up, honey. We'll look arter everythin'."
-
-Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her
-lips framed the words, "With you?"
-
-"Yes, dear, home with me," said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. "I
-have been searching for you all this time."
-
-An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it
-meant. How often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to
-shock her by the sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that
-would harm her less than continued anxiety. "I am alone, dear
-Ramona," he whispered. "There is no one now but you, my sister,
-to take care of me. My mother has been dead a year."
-
-The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. "Dear Felipe!"
-she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one
-inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for
-Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to "take care of Felipe"!
-Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection
-and duty, on the side of life,-- the battle was won, and won
-quickly, too.
-
-To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked
-on Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a
-superstitious reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the
-value of the herb by means of which she had wrought the
-marvellous cure; but they had made repeated experiments with it
-upon Ramona, without success. It must be that there had been
-some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would hardly
-believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she
-reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot
-water and "old man," which was her name for the wild wormwood;
-and which, when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as
-having no doubt some significance in connection with the results
-of her preparation of the leaves.
-
-Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The
-presence in the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who
-spent gold like water, and kept mounted men riding day and night,
-after everything, anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an
-event which in the atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into
-colossal proportions. He had travelled all over California, with
-four horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till she was well,
-to take her to his home in the south; and then he was going to
-arrest the man who had murdered her husband, and have him
-hanged, -- yes, hanged! Small doubt about that; or, if the law
-cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor would see
-him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these tales,
-and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for
-well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges;
-but the bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were
-like Indians in their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their
-memories were long. Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper
-get the better of him on that lonely mountainside; how much the
-better, nobody but he himself knew,-- nobody but he and Ramona:
-and even Ramona did not know the bitter whole. She knew that
-Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with no hostile
-intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer
-himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge
-and jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own,
-and that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by
-Alessandro, and those were, "Senor, I will explain;" and that even
-after the first shot had pierced his lungs, and the blood was
-choking in his throat, he had still run a step or two farther, with his
-hand uplifted deprecatingly, and made one more effort to speak
-before he fell to the ground dead. Callous as Farrar was, and clear
-as it was in his mind that killing an Indian was no harm, he had not
-liked to recall the pleading anguish in Alessandro's tone and in his
-face as he fell. He had not liked to recall this, even before he heard
-of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who had appeared on the
-scene; and now, he found the memories still more unpleasant. Fear
-is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another thing, too,
-which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by
-everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing
-of it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and
-minutely investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was,
-that the only clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken
-his horse, was that the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own
-well-known gray pony in the corral in place of the horse he took. A
-strange thing, surely, for a horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out
-on Farrar's forehead, more than once, as he realized how this,
-coupled with the well-known fact of Alessandro's liability to
-attacks of insanity, might be made to tell against him, if he should
-be brought to trial for the murder. He was as cowardly as he was
-cruel: never yet were the two traits separate in human nature; and
-after a few days of this torturing suspense and apprehension, he
-suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, at least for a
-few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the way. He lost
-no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well he did not,
-for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that Felipe
-walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries
-relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in
-the matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James
-Farrar. And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe
-his notes of the case, and went on to say, "If Farrar's testimony is
-true, Ramona's, the wife's, must be false," and "at any rate, her
-testimony would not be worth a straw with any jury," Felipe sprang
-to his feet, and cried, "She of whom you speak is my foster-sister;
-and, by God, Senor, if I can find that man, I will shoot him as I
-would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a San Diego County jury will
-hang me for ridding the country of such a brute!" and Felipe would
-have been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Farrar had done
-in making his escape.
-
-When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed
-up her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was
-young Merrill. "Fled ther country, hez he?" she said. "Wall, he kin
-flee ez many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I
-know yeow folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny
-murder, but I say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore
-yer die: ef 'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind
-what I say, 'n' don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer,
-this Farrar, thet's lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk,
-but he's got the Lawd arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I
-never did b'leeve in hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead
-'stead o' one. I don't want to see no man hung, no marter what he's
-done, 'n' I don't want to see no man shot down, nuther, no marter
-what he's done; 'n' this hyar Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha'
-shot thet Farrar, any minnit, quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched
-him; so it's better all raound he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he
-hain't made much by goin'! Thet Injun he murdered 'll foller him
-night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore
-he doos die, I allow he will, naow. He'll be jest like a man I
-knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a mite then, but I never
-forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East Tennessee is, whar I
-wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence between 'em, 'n'
-these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o' ther childun
-picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then the women
-took it up,-- ther childun's mothers, yer know, -- 'n' they got fightin'
-abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they fit; 'n'
-Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he picked a
-querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed him up
-for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever did,
-but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; 'n' he
-lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like he never
-hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, 'Jake,' -- they
-allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,' -- 'Jake,' sed he, 'I can't
-stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the country's clar'd
-ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' I've got Claiborne
-allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but he's a walkin' in it,
-by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with him ter one side, 'n'
-my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's ther very words I heered
-him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but I didn't furgit it. Wall,
-sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy, 'n' he couldn't stay
-thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz bigger then, a gal
-grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,-- I heern him,-- 'Wal,' sez he, 'did
-Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll never git
-shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' Yer
-see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. 'T
-least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said 't wuz
-Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this miser'ble
-Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er shot, er erry
-which way, ter git out er his misery."
-
-Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest
-words. They reached a depth in his nature which had been long
-untouched; a stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the
-surface. The character of the Western frontiersman is often a
-singular accumulation of such strata, -- the training and beliefs of
-his earliest days overlain by successions of unrelated and violent
-experiences, like geological deposits. Underneath the exterior
-crust of the most hardened and ruffianly nature often remains -- its
-forms not yet quite fossilized -- a realm full of the devout customs,
-doctrines, religious influences, which the boy knew, and the man
-remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or
-struggle in his mature life, these all come again into the light.
-Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his
-childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is
-thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of
-feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and new man within
-him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon
-young Merrill. He was not many years removed from the sound of
-a preaching of the straitest New England Calvinism. The wild
-frontier life had drawn him in and under, as in a whirlpool; but he
-was New Englander yet at heart.
-
-"That's so, Aunt Ri!" he exclaimed. "That's so! I don't s'pose a man
-that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor
-in the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin'
-business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way
-you can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught
-horse-stealin' had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you,
-in this country!"
-
-A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. "I hain't no
-patience left with yer," she said, "er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez
-ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this
-Injun, he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it.
-D'yer think ef he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in
-the corral, same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he
-done it; 'n' the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur
-ennybody ter see?"
-
-"Left his own horse, so he did!" retorted Merrill. "A poor,
-miserable, knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars;
-'n' Jim's horse was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that."
-
-"Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin'," persisted
-Aunt Ri. "I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is,
-he wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum
-used ter hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit
-thet left his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which
-road he tuk, 'n' fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when
-he got hum! I allow me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much
-more on ther subjeck, fur I allow we air bound to querril ef we
-dew;" and nothing that Merrill said could draw another word out
-of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death. But there was another
-subject on which she was tireless, and her speech eloquent. It was
-the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The last vestige
-of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in the
-presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. "I'll never hear a
-word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day," she said. "The way
-the pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur
-Ramony, beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound
-more'n most. 'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they
-didn't know, till Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks
-ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' taken care on her till she died, jest the
-same. The sick allers ez took care on among them, they sed, 's long
-uz enny on em hez got a thing left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I
-allow white folks might take a lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps
-uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't
-yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all thet, 't won't make any
-difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody b'leeve ennythin' 'n this
-world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet way tew; I allow I hain't
-got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull world could see what
-I've seen! Thet's all!"
-
-It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends
-departed. Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having
-found such a protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they
-felt Felipe's and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them,
-they were yet conscious of a loss,-- of a void. The gulf between
-them and the rest of the world seemed defined anew, their sense of
-isolation deepened, their hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona,
-wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister,-- one of them; as such,
-she would have had share in all their life had to offer. But its
-utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation; and she
-was being borne away from it, like one rescued, not so much from
-death, as from a life worse than death.
-
-The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them
-farewell. She embraced again and again the young mother who had
-for so many days suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her
-own hardier babe that Ramona's should not suffer. "Sister, you
-have given me my child," she cried; "I can never thank you; I will
-pray for you all my life."
-
-She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a
-little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater
-than hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No
-other voice spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of
-acceptance which had characterized her daily life in her girlhood,
-and kept her serene and sunny then,-- serene under trials, sunny in
-her routine of little duties,-- had kept her serene through all the
-afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the burdens of her
-later life; and it did not desert her even now,
-
-Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her
-dry, humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. "I allow I
-donno but I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew," she said, "ef I wuz
-ter live 'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n
-human. 'T beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles.
-Thar's sum would say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez
-more 'n most folks. I kin see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never
-expect ter think 's well uv prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n'
-sech; but ef 't 's thet keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow
-thar's more in it 'n it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more
-agin it' nor agin Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears
-inter my head, these days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git
-through!"
-
-The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as
-to a mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side
-than go home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the
-thought, as for a treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling,
-and did not wonder at it. "Dear girl," he thought; "it is the nearest
-she has ever come to knowing what a mother's love is like!" And
-he lingered in San Bernardino week after week, on the pretence
-that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear the journey home,
-when in reality his sole motive for staying was his reluctance to
-deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering companionship.
-
-Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's
-wife. She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that
-dreadful morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached
-her. It was of her favorite pattern, the "hit-er-miss" pattern, as she
-called it; no set stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball
-after ball of the indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and
-forth, on a warp of a single color. The constant variety in it, the
-unexpectedly harmonious blending of the colors, gave her delight,
-and afforded her a subject, too, of not unphilosophical reflection.
-
-"Wall," she said, "it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's 'hit'
-oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way ther
-breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when
-they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter be
-with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss'
-pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon
-how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd
-think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought
-'t wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a
-'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't
-never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest
-ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter
-come, 'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter
-see 't done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I
-larned thet lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper,
-jest ther wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin
-see it's what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I
-wuz told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a
-bawn fool gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll
-take ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along."
-
-When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own
-independent arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had
-been biding the time when she should have this excuse for going
-there. Her mind was burdened with questions she wished to ask,
-information she wished to give, and she chose an hour when she
-knew she would find the Agent himself at home.
-
-"I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,"
-she said; "I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz
-murdered. We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n'
-her brother. He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well
-off."
-
-Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow
-did not come to see him; he had expected to hear from her.
-
-"Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef
-she wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny
-use in talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth
-nuthin' to no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef
-thet wuz so."
-
-"Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me," said the Agent. "I was
-going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to
-bring the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be
-believed."
-
-"Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to
-Injuns, I notice," broke in Aunt Ri; "hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n'
-the marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed
-'twas yeour doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son
-o' hell -- them wuz thar words -- thet sold whiskey ter Injuns."
-
-"That's so!" said the Agent. "So I am; I am determined to break up
-this vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying
-to do anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's
-a sin and a shame."
-
-"Thet's so, I allow ter yeow," said Aunt Ri. "Thar ain't any
-gainsayin' thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail
-fur sellin' whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him
-punished ef he goes 'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin'
-cur'us abaout thet."
-
-"That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri," he said. "I
-have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have."
-
-"What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?" broke in Aunt Ri.
-
-The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her
-logical method of questioning was inconvenient.
-
-"I only mean that they are under my charge," he said. "I don't mean
-that they belong to me in any way."
-
-"Wall, I allow not," retorted Aunt Ri, "enny more 'n I dew. They air
-airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've been
-'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had my
-eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet
-they call the Agency doctor,-- what's he got ter do?"
-
-"To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,"
-replied the Agent, promptly.
-
-"Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why
-Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,-- thet's why he put his
-name down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it.
-He wuz high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben
-druv out er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down,
-'n' pore; 'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little
-gal, 'n' the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur
-askin.' 'N' they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n'
-she died afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er
-all the rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them
-wandrin' spells till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet
-docter. I wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I
-wuz yeow. Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't
-bleeve yer knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go."
-
-"No, Aunt Ri," said the Agent; "I could not have done that; he is
-only required to doctor such Indians as come here."
-
-"I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all," said
-Aunt Ri; "'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound
-here. I expect he gits well paid?" and she paused for an answer.
-None came. The Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to
-Aunt Ri what salary the Government paid the San Bernardino
-doctor for sending haphazard prescriptions to Indians he never
-saw.
-
-After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: "Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I
-allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these
-Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em
-'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny
-power to giv' 'em ennything,-- food or sech? They air powerful
-pore, most on 'em."
-
-"I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times of
-special suffering;" replied the Agent, "a very little; and the
-Department has appropriated some money for wagons and
-ploughs; not enough, however, to supply every village; you see
-these Indians are in the main self-supporting."
-
-"Thet's jest it," persisted Aunt Ri. "Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n'
-thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means
-ter hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef
-yer can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say
-killin' 'em,-- ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from
-gettin' whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say --" Aunt Ri paused; she did
-not wish to seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so
-concluded her sentence very differently from her first impulse,--
-"I'm free ter say I shouldn't like ter stan' in yer shoes."
-
-"You may very well say that, Aunt Ri," laughed the Agent,
-complacently. "It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list,
-and the least satisfactory."
-
-"Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin'," rejoined the
-indefatigable Aunt Ri; "but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef
-so be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'." And she
-looked honestly puzzled.
-
-"Look there, Aunt Ri!" said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of
-books and papers. "All those to be gone through with, and a report
-to be made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every
-lead-pencil I buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life
-before, and for less pay."
-
-"I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then," retorted Aunt Ri,
-good-naturedly satirical, "ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!" And
-she took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real
-nature and function of the Indian Agency than she was in the
-beginning.
-
-Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be
-in a dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and
-Benito, gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage
-seemed gliding; Felipe by her side, -- the dear Felipe,-- his eyes
-wearing the same bright and loving look as of old,-- what strange
-thing was it which had happened to her to make it all seem unreal?
-Even the little one in her arms,-- she too, seemed unreal! Ramona
-did not know it, but her nerves were still partially paralyzed.
-Nature sends merciful anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill
-us. In the very sharpness of the blow sometimes lies its own first
-healing. It would be long before Ramona would fully realize that
-Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was yet to come.
-
-Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was
-with a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day,
-placid, always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her
-gratitude for each thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach;
-all the more that he knew her gentle heart had never held a thought
-of reproach in it towards him. "Grateful to me!" he thought. "To
-me, who might have spared her all this woe if I had been strong!"
-
-Never would Felipe forgive himself,-- no, not to the day of his
-death. His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but
-what a pitiful thing was that to render!
-
-As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from
-him that she had shed tears. At last he said to her: "Dearest
-Ramona, do not fear to weep before me. I would not be any
-constraint on you. It is better for you to let the tears come freely,
-my sister. They are healing to wounds."
-
-"I do not think so, Felipe," replied Ramona. "Tears are only selfish
-and weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not
-possible always to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have
-wept, and think also that I have sinned, because I have given a sad
-sight to others. Father Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to
-look happy, no matter how much we might be suffering."
-
-"That is more than human power can do!" said Felipe.
-
-"I think not," replied Ramona. "If it were, Father Salvierderra
-would not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe,
-what a smile his face always wore? and his heart had been broken
-for many, many years before he died. Alone, in the night, when he
-prayed, he used to weep, from the great wrestling he had with God,
-he told me; but we never saw him except with a smile. When one
-thinks in the wilderness, alone, Felipe, many things become clear. I
-have been learning, all these years in the wilderness, as if I had had
-a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought that the spirit of Father
-Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts into my mind. I hope
-I can tell them to my child when she is old enough. She will
-understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's soul;
-you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I speak
-were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and
-the sky and the sun, and all trees know them."
-
-When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in
-silence. He himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name;
-but Ramona spoke it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not
-fathom this. There were to be many things yet which Felipe could
-not fathom in this lovely, sorrowing, sunny sister of his.
-
-When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the
-watch for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and
-Juan Can heading the group; only two absent,-- Margarita and
-Luigo. They had been married some months before, and were
-living at the Ortegas ranch, where Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful
-amusement, had been made head shepherd.
-
-On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting.
-Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest
-the home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a
-little of what their dear Senorita had been through since she left
-them; it seemed that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow,
-and that it would be terrible to her to come back to the place so
-full of painful associations. "And the Senora gone, too," said one
-of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it over; "it's not the
-same place at all that it was when the Senora was here."
-
-"Humph!" muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing
-than ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. "Humph!
-that's all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I
-can tell you! We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I
-can tell you that, my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be
-under Senor Felipe and the Senorita than under the Senora, peace
-to her ashes! She had her day. They can have theirs now."
-
-When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona -- pale, but
-with her own old smile on her face -- coming towards them with
-her babe in her arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was
-not a dry eye in the group.
-
-Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby
-towards her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, "I am
-sure you will love my baby, Marda!"
-
-"Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!" they cried; and
-closed up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her,
-handing her from one to another.
-
-Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said,
-"Give her to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;"
-and she moved toward the inner door.
-
-"This way, dear; this way," cried Felipe. "It is Father Salvierderra's
-room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for
-the baby!"
-
-"Thanks, kind Felipe!" cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than
-her words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most
-dreaded in returning,-- the crossing again the threshold of her own
-room. It would be long now before she would enter that room.
-Perhaps she would never enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!
-
-Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the
-wisdom hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked
-upon the face of this beautiful woman,-- so much more beautiful
-now than she had been before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes,
-as he gazed at her, thought her changed even in feature? But in this
-very change lay a spell which would for a long time surround her,
-and set her as apart from lover's thoughts as if she were guarded by
-a cordon of viewless spirits. There was a rapt look of holy
-communion on her face, which made itself felt by the dullest
-perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. It
-was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her
-own humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day,
-in reply to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can,
-to the effect that it was "a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't
-married the Senorita years ago,-- what if he were to do it yet?" she
-said, also under her breath. "It is my opinion he'd as soon think of
-Saint Catharine herself! Not but that it would be a great thing if it
-could be!"
-
-And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often
-had come about,-- the presence of a little child in her house, on the
-veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest
-presence. But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as
-she proudly had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless,
-banished Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the
-daughter of the house,-- Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the
-child had been Felipe's own, he could not have felt for it a greater
-love. From the first, the little thing had clung to him as only
-second to her mother. She slept hours in his arms, one little hand
-hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and again
-when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in Felipe's heart came
-Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the fondness he
-felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month by
-month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's
-life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant
-fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of
-Alessandro did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief:
-it meant an unchanged relation.
-
-One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,-- the concealed
-treasure. A sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from
-speaking of it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it.
-Each hour that he delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as
-guilty as he had held his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not
-said many words, before Ramona interrupted him. "Oh, yes!" she
-said. "I knew about those things; your mother told me. When we
-were in such trouble, I used to wish sometimes we could have had
-a few of the jewels. But they were all given to the Church. That
-was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with them if I
-married against your mother's wishes."
-
-It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: "Dear
-Ramona, they were not given to the Church. You know Father
-Salvierderra died; and I suppose my mother did not know what to
-do with them. She told me about them just as she was dying."
-
-"But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?" asked
-Ramona, simply.
-
-"Why?" cried Felipe. "Because I hold them to be yours, and yours
-only. I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure
-proof that you were dead and had left no children."
-
-Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. "You have not
-read the Senora Ortegna's letter?" she said.
-
-"Yes, I have," he replied, "every word of it."
-
-"But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married
-against the Senora Moreno's will."
-
-Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? "No, dear," he said, "that was
-not the word. It was, if you married unworthily."
-
-Ramona reflected. "I never recollected the words," she said. "I was
-too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not
-marry unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest
-for me to take them for my child?"
-
-"Perfectly," said Felipe.
-
-"Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep
-them?"
-
-"I am sure of it, dear."
-
-"I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother
-did not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That
-was why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I
-took one thing,-- a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to
-have it; but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale.
-Alessandro rode back a half-day's journey to find it for me; but it
-had blown away. I grieved sorely for it."
-
-The next day Ramona said to Felipe: "Dear Felipe, I have thought
-it all over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my
-daughter to have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written
-for me to sign, to say that if she dies they are all to be given to the
-Church,-- to Father Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That
-is where I would rather have them go."
-
-"Yes, dear," said Felipe; "and then we will put them in some safer
-place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful
-no one has stolen them all these years!"
-
-And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a
-written bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain,
-uncertain thing we call the future, and delude our selves with the
-fancy that we can have much to do with its shaping.
-
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
-Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,-- smoothly to the eye.
-Nothing could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of
-its days, with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence
-of all. Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own
-joys. There was not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting
-back and forth, from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room
-to room, equally at home and equally welcome everywhere, there
-went perpetually, running, frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little
-child that had so strangely drifted into this happy shelter,-- the
-little Ramona. As unconscious of aught sad or fateful in her
-destiny as the blossoms with which it was her delight to play, she
-sometimes seemed to her mother to have been from the first in
-some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set free from
-all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.
-
-Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had
-now an added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her
-return, when she felt that she for the first time waked to the
-realization of her bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place
-seemed to cry out, mocking her with the name and the memory of
-Alessandro. But she wrestled with this absorbing grief as with a
-sin; setting her will steadfastly to the purposes of each day's duty,
-and, most of all, to the duty of joyfulness. She repeated to herself
-Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than knew them by
-heart; and she spent long hours of the night in prayer, as it had
-been his wont to do.
-
-No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew
-them; and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a
-new victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the
-first dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a
-clearer-sighted lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He
-knew that into the world where Ramona really lived he did not so
-much as enter; yet her every act, word, look, was full of loving
-thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness in his
-companionship. And while this was so, all Felipe's unrest could not
-make him unhappy.
-
-There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his
-yearning desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the
-conditions of life in California were growing more distasteful to
-him. The methods, aims, standards of the fast incoming Americans
-were to him odious. Their boasted successes, the crowding of
-colonies, schemes of settlement and development,-- all were
-disagreeable and irritating. The passion for money and reckless
-spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour, thrown away in
-another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and
-gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them.
-Life under the new government grew more and more intolerable to
-him; both his hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his
-temperament, revolted. He found himself more and more alone in
-the country. Even the Spanish tongue was less and less spoken. He
-was beginning to yearn for Mexico,-- for Mexico, which he had
-never seen, yet yearned for like an exile. There he might yet live
-among men of his own race and degree, and of congenial beliefs
-and occupations. Whenever he thought of this change, always
-came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing to go?
-Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had
-known nothing but sufferings
-
-At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried:
-"Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did
-not think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most
-beautiful dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in
-Mexico."
-
-And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and
-wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her
-daughter the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the
-bond of race.
-
-The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than
-he could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated
-with some rich American proprietors who had desired to buy the
-Moreno estate. Land in the valley had so greatly advanced in
-value, that the sum he received for it was larger than he had dared
-to hope; was ample for the realization of all his plans for the new
-life in Mexico. From the hour that this was determined, and the
-time for their sailing fixed, a new expression came into Ramona's
-face. Her imagination was kindled. An untried future beckoned,-- a
-future which she would embrace and conquer for her daughter.
-Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the first time hoped. It
-would be a new world, a new life; why not a new love? She could
-not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw it, could she
-refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait long, he
-thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without hope, he
-could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But
-patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day
-when Felipe first thought to himself, "She will yet be mine," it
-grew harder, and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his
-love in words. Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm
-and comfort to him, grew at times intolerable; and again and again
-her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had
-displeased him, so strangely did he conduct himself.
-
-He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her
-his passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home.
-But there came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.
-
-It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been
-on board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were
-rowed back to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona
-sat bareheaded in the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from
-the water seemed to float up around her, and invest her as with a
-myriad halos. Felipe gazed at her till his senses swam; and when,
-on stepping from the boat, she put her hand in his, and said, as she
-had said hundreds of times before, "Dear Felipe, how good you
-are!" he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, "Ramona, my love!
-Oh, can you not love me?"
-
-The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore.
-Ramona gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a
-second; then she knew all. "Felipe! My brother!" she cried, and
-stretched out her hands as if in warning.
-
-"No! I am not your brother!" he cried. "I will not be your brother! I
-would rather die!"
-
-"Felipe!" cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to
-himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain.
-
-"Forgive me, my sweet one!" he exclaimed. "I will never say it
-again. But I have loved you so long -- so long!"
-
-Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on
-the shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet
-gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this
-supreme moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw
-his whole past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. "Dear
-Felipe," she said, clasping her hands, "I have been very selfish. I
-did not know --"
-
-"Of course you did not, love," said Felipe. "How could you? But I
-have never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you
-not learn to love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet.
-But now I have spoken; I cannot hide it any more."
-
-Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. "I have
-always loved you," she said. "I love no other living man; but,
-Felipe," -- her voice sank to a solemn whisper,-- "do you not know,
-Felipe, that part of me is dead,-- dead? can never live again? You
-could not want me for your wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!"
-
-Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy.
-"You would not say that if you did not think you could be my
-wife," he cried. "Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not
-whether you call yourself dead or alive!"
-
-Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did
-not know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had
-known. This gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself
-fervently now if she would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to
-him what seemed to her only the broken fragment of a life;
-weighing his words, not in the light of passion, but of calmest,
-most unselfish action,-- ah, how unlike was she to that Ramona
-who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, "Take me with
-you! I would rather die than have you leave me!"
-
-Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw
-now, with infallible intuition, that even as she had loved
-Alessandro, so Felipe loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe
-happiness, when he had saved her, saved her child? What else now
-remained for them, these words having been spoken? "I will be
-your wife, dear Felipe," she said, speaking solemnly, slowly, "if
-you are sure it will make you happy, and if you think it is right."
-
-"Right!" ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon.
-"Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you
-will forget you ever said that part of you was dead!"
-
-A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face;
-it might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it
-again.
-
-General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the
-city of Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends.
-On the day after their arrival he and Ramona were married in the
-cathedral, old Marda and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in
-proud joy behind them. The story of the romance of their lives,
-being widely rumored, greatly enhanced the interest with which
-they were welcomed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno was the
-theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled with pride to see the
-gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was distinguished in all
-assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. Ramona might
-well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood like
-sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each
-other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a
-voice saying, "Majella!" This was the only secret her loyal, loving
-heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,--
-loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe
-Moreno.
-
-Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all
-beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the
-most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the
-one who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the
-Senor,-- Ramona,-- Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson
-
diff --git a/old/rmona10.zip b/old/rmona10.zip
deleted file mode 100644
index 8a19a6d..0000000
--- a/old/rmona10.zip
+++ /dev/null