 CHAPTER 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 said 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 ploddings and plantings 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 sister's school to be a servant there for the rest of her life. The senora would wash her hands of her forever. Even Father Salviedeta 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 St. Catherine, 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. Dowery 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. Did 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 his 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 stoned 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. She 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 aroused 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 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 log, 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 newborn 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. Sitting 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? Being 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 today. 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. Mary, Mary that end in, she cried, as soon as she found voice. You, Mary and end in, 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 end in. 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. Dostle, 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. Shaw, 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 tomorrow 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 end in, 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 said. 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 passageway 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 threads 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 overstrong 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 St. Catherine statue and, willing 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 harkening 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 end-end. Everybody knew that. At the word end-end Ramona gave a low cry. The senora misunderstood it. I, she said, a low common end-end. I told my sister, when she took you, the end-end 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 end-end blood in my veins shows today. I understand many things I never understood before. Was it because I was an end-end that you have always hated me? You are not an end-end, 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 end-end, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am glad I am an end-end. 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 end-end, 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 cruel 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. Fail, angus fail, 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. Shaws 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 could 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 untieing 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 fathers 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 jewel, senora, you can give to the church if Father Sol Viedetta 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 Sol Viedetta! 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 Sol Viedetta would say or might command in this crisis. Her religion and the long habit of its outward bonds had a light gone from her in her sudden wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that she became conscious of this. For Sol Viedetta, 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 Sol Viedetta 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 Sol Viedetta. And if he did, repeated the senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, would you disobey him? Yes, said Ramona. I will tell Father Sol Viedetta 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. Deerly 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, O 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 end in? 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 senora 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? CHAPTER XII PART I 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 trellest 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 someone. 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 favouring 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? Here 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. That was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counseled 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 in equal. You may trust me to do all I can 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. Did 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 Ramonas 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. She 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 hand's 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 toward 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 toward her he attempted to put his arm around her waist as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed him gently. But, be thinking 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 toward him. Listen your aside 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 seemed 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, Madre, 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 he told you all? He said that you had bidden him be gone 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, and 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. Seeing 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 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. Death 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 Orteña 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. I, 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 born 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. After Felipe paused, he had made his charge, like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at the onset, he had no reserves. It was not the way to take Gibraltas. 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? CHAPTER XII. OF RAMONA. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson. CHAPTER XII. PART II. 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 toward 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 wanted, 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 with her 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 marry 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 defense 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 that not 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 sister's 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, served 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 Senoras were like nothing in life so much as like that stage in a spider's process as 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. Several 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 cursively 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 anyway. 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 all together 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 that 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 endorsement 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 hardly approved of, my son? True mother, and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead, but then we forced them to run away. Oh, no, said the Senora, icely. 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 disconfited, 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 in 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. Seeing her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passageway, 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, bowed it 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. Felipe smiled back in a way which reassured her, but the reassurance did not last long. Senorita, Ramona, or Teña, 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, or Teña, she said. My son and I have been discussing what 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 bitting 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 Salviadera 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 worthwhile 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 toward 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 tomorrow. 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, broken 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 again looking 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. Think, 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 Salviadera, who is going to bring disgrace both on the Moreno and the Orteña name? We can't feel exactly the same torter 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 suppose so, said the senora. Was that not your idea? We must try to have it so, I think. Do not you? Yes, groaned Felipe, if we can. CHAPTER 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 Orteña 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 Orteña jewels—well, that was a thing to be decided in the future. That should be left to Father Salviatedeta to decide. But 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 Salviatedeta 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 Orteña'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 meantime she would not risk writing about it. The treasure was as safe in St. Catherine'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 Salviatedeta 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 skillful in its own defense 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 shadeless 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 senyota had her plan, her chart of the future, as it were, all reconstructed. The sting of her discomforture 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 and 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 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 offense 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 Monterrey, 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. Seeing 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 heart-sick 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 wore 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 faint of sweeping the passageway, 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 passageway 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 colour. 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 others 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 a family. While Felipe continued ill and was so soothed to rest by his music there was no room for cavalry. 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. Would the lads cherry 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, wished 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 Marada, 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. Marada did not believe them. She could not. She believed that Margarita's jealousy had imagined all. And the senora should send you packing off this place in an hour and me too long as I've lived here if ever she was to know of you blackening the senorita, and end in two. 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, Marada 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 pretense of a supper had begun, old Marada 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 misty mean 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 Conn 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 baranda, I wager you. But when at supper time of this same eventful day the senorita 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 senorita'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 senorita's presence. When Margarita, standing in the courtyard, feigning to be feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passageways, 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. When Margarita, standing in the dining room, when she saw them all coming in as usual, the senorita, 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. During 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 is 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, Dosing 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 anyone. Signora Felipe sauntered about in his usual fashion smoking his cigarettes or lay on his bed in the veranda dozing. The Signora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to everyone 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 Madonna's, 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 Signora. 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 Salvieta 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 Salvieta at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him. I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Signora 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 Signora 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 Signora'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 Signora goodbye. 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 Salviadeta 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 senyatta 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 senyatta in her thoughts. As from her childhood up she had accepted the fact of the senyatta'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 fiber 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 fullness 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 sword 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 could 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, retwisted 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. And Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own end-end dissent 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. For 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 end-end village. And then, when he expressed some such emotion, she would quietly say, But I too am an end-end Alessandro. Strange, sad, bright streams these, but they made Ramona's heart happy as she dreamed them. CHAPTER RID by John Nill