 CHAPTER 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 senorita. It would have been beautiful to see if it had not been so cruel a thing, the various and devious methods by which the senorita 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 senorita 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 senorita'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 senorita 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 senorita'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 senorita. She was asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note and concealing it in his hand, rose and walked toward Ramona's window. Ramona terrifiedly watching him. The sound of Felipe's steps roused the senorita, who sat up instantly and gazed about her with that indescribable expression peculiar to people who hoped they had 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 senorita were to go first into the room?' She hardly dared look at her. But fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The senorita 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 senorita 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 senorita. "'I was,' replied Ramona, alarmed. "'Did you want me here?' "'No,' said the senorita, 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 senorita 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 senorita 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 senorita 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 senorita had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was living in these days. The senorita 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 senorita's presence, yet between the former chill and this were many degrees, and except for her new life and her 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. Fabripe, 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 Fabripe 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. Fabripe 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 Philippe, 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 loves making one undertake any such life. Philippe 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 senorita, 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 Philippe on the veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the windowpains 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 Philippe 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. Despite of all, however, she was heavy at heart, and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were sad to see. They hurt Philippe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also was anxious. The senota 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 Philippe disquiet himself? The senota disliked it. It was a bad symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was indeed trouble ahead of a sort the senota'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 Philippe'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 won 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 out into the distance, the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back after dark, wider and more wan than she went out. As she sat at the supper-table silent, making no faint of eating, only drinking glass after glass of milk and 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 well-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 with insider 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 rawhide swung from cross-beams in a long shed. In the willow-cops, the brandy-steel was in full blast. It took one man to watch it. This was Huancón'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 senorah coming close to Felipe and laying her hand on his arm set 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 senorah 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 frightened me. I believe she will die. I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place, said the senorah 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 senorah 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 senorah 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 gained, said, 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 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 was 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 senorita wondered if Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost even the senorita 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 Salvierdera. 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 senorita 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 walked 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 until dusk. At last came a day when she could not go, her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the senorita who asked frigidly if she were ill she answered, No senorita, I do not think I am ill. I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better tomorrow. I will send you strong broth and a medicine, the senorita 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 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 senorita Felipe was at the worst of the fever. I, said old Margarita, who had seen all this for days back. I, 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. Huancón says he thinks he will never be seen here again, continued Margarita. The saints granted then, said Mara the Hotly. If it is he has cost the senorita all this, I am that turned about in my head with it all that I have no thoughts to think, but plain enough it is he is mixed up with whatever tears has gone wrong. I could tell what it is, said Margarita, her old pertinence coming uppermost for a moment, but I've got no more to say now the senorita is lying on her bed with the face she's got. It's not 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 St. Francis, too. She's going to be with him before long. I know she is. No, said the wiser, older Mada. She is not so ill as you think. She is young. It's the hearts 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. Many a mile to the end of the road, my girl, said Mada significantly, and its ill-boasting the first day out was a proverb when I was your age. Mada had never been much more than halfway fond of this own child of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Madagarita's father, had embittered many a day of Mada's early married life, were perpetually cropping out in Madagarita, 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 Madagarita and, in fact, were unjust and ill-founded. She's always flinging out at me whatever I do, thought Madagarita. I know one thing. I'll never tell her what the senoritas told me. Never, till after she's gone. CHAPTER XIV PART II A sudden suspicion flashed into Madagarita'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. Madagarita dismissed the thought. Yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having had it. Her resuscitated affection for her young mistress was not yet so strong that it would resist the assault 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 fill yet a sharp emotion of displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the senorita. None of 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 18th day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona had lain for four days while Nye 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 natures in forced rest. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tied over crises, strains in which if we continue 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 rained 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 wall seemed revivified. She clasped her hands and leapt 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 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'm 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 fullness 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 Mecula itself, sure that she was, at each step, drawing nearer to Alessandro. As she approached the second willow-cops, which they 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's 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 the cry bound 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 side 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. Oh God! cried Ramona. You've 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 and his. Senorita, he said. My Senorita. Then he stopped. His tongue seemed to refuse him utterance and this voice, this strange, hard, unreasonable voice. Whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's. My Senorita, he began again. I could not go without one side 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 do they mean? Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro. Heaven, Senorita, he cried. Have you not heard? Do 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 tonight 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'm afraid of nothing now that you are here and not dead as I thought. But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last draining her closer to his breast, he cried. Dear 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'm only a beggar now, Senorita. Like those who used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent. As he spoke the last words, he reeled and supporting himself against the tree, he 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 set you to me tonight. 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 suddenly, 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 unpeaceably and help him keep the people quiet. He felt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothzegger 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 Cajón. We have 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, while 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. Rothzegger, 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. Rothzegger do it? Who has the land now? I don't know who they are, Alessandro replied, his voice full of anger and scorn. Their 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. Rothzegger could tell about it. It was a 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're 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 a 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 someone had built up a little booth of tulle 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 house is in piles on the ground. The people took all the roofs off their houses too. They were made of the tulle 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 the 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've 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 anymore, nor know anything that had happened. I built a little hut of tulle, and he lay on the ground till he died. When I put him in his grave, I was glad. Into Mecula, asked Ramona. Into Mecula, exclaimed Alessandro fiercely. You don't seem to understand, Senorita. We have no ride into Mecula. 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'd 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, oh, 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, great picking. 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. Hartzell, 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 he died in it. Died right in his own door, carrying out some of the things, and after Carmina, 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 Pochanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession of us. Where is Pochanga? asked Ramona. About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of cannon. 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 as soon as they got there. So there was water to drink. But that is all. I saw Carmina 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, Carmina 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 was the little one? She opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead. Good Carmina, 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? Gasp Ramona. Intemecula, said Alessandro. Mr. Rothsaker, made two of his men, dig a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmina 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 book with you, safely, without being seen? The Saints bless you, beloved. Forcoming. I could not have lived, I think, without one more side 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? Explain Ramona, wonderingly. An Indian word, my dearest one. The name of the bird you are like, the wood dove. In the Luceno tongue, that is, majele. 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 it 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, musily. 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. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 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 15 Alessandro's first answer to this cry of Ramona's was the 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 wrote 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 anymore. 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 me as I am today? 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 whether these questions tended. It was not unlike the senorita'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 senorita's house, all alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvediera, 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, senorita. My senorita, you will not do that. My beautiful senorita in the convent. No, cried Alessandro, greatly agitated. Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out tomorrow. 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 anyone 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. While 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's 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 courtyard, rather than have me go with you. I would never let her harm you, said Alessandro, neither would Senor Felipe. She turns Felipe around 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 everyone 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. There may 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 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 feet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's matchless little Dunmer 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 Dunmer, galloping towards him like the wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of a steam engine, and her side-stripping 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 gas between his words, told him. Alessandro could not remember the words, only that after them he said 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 a place where his father lay on the ground, under the tool, 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 cops where he first halted, at his first side 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 its 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 Canyon, 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 Bala 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 wasn't tractable 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. While Alessandro knew how sound they slept, many a night while he slept there with them, he'd walk 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 his 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. He 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 whinny in size. 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, leapt over it and stood still by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself. Despite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Khan'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 surface report could be. A floor and a roof, no walls, only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summer houses 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-cops, 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 winnied. Why shouldn't he know the senorita's name? I believe he does. I thought Alessandro. As he turned and, again, ran swiftly back to the corral. He felt strong now, felt like a new man. Despite 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, Ligo slept on the barn floor. If you were there tonight, 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. Ah, old captain, 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 wait for a starved manicurry, 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. Which they eat on the ways. Alessandro thought him of the violin at Hartzell's. Mr. Hartzell would give him money on that, perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro remembered his own violin. He 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 hour seemed, as he sat thus, plodding 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 the 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 courtyard. 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. 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. The iron 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 used for carrying all sorts of burdens. They are woven out of the fibers 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 stuffed gown and her shaws, the new altercloth, 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 Salviadera 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 gaily to herself. Through the courtyard, 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 Marjra's possession, as on her own. And she dare 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 leather and 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 goodbye, 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 tonight. Don't let anything be done to us. If you can't help it, I don't know where we are going. I hope to Father Saviadeira. I shall love you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness. 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 senor 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 sent in, 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, 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 willow 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. Philippe, Father Salviadera, 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 Philippe 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 would all be sorry I have gone, all but the senora. I wish it had been so that I could have been in the mall good-bye, and had the mall bid me good-bye, and wish us good fortune. Thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew alongside, and turning her back on her home, went forward in the path she had chosen. She stooped and padded Capitane on the head. Will you come with me, Capitane? she said. And Capitane leapt up droidfully, giving two or three short, sharp notes of delight. Good Capitane, come. They would not miss him out of so many, she thought, and it will always seem like something from home as long as I have Capitane. When Alassando 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 cops, and hid himself behind a tree to watch. In a few moments he thought he recognized Capitane, bounding by the sight of this bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman twirling along under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a collie as Capitane? Alassando strained his eyes through the darkness. Presently he saw the figure halt, drop part of its burden. Alassando 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 that I would use it so soon, but it hurts my forehead, Alassando. 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 Alassando, 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, Alassando. 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 Alassando here is Capitan. He waked up and I had to bring him to keep him still. Can he go with us? Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alassando's breast, licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do to show welcome and affection. Alassando laughed aloud. Ramona had not, more than two or three times, heard him do this. It frightened her. Why do you laugh, Alassando? she said. To think what I have to show you, my señorita, he said. Look here. Entering towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at the first note of which Baba came triding out of the cops 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, señorita? cried Alassando. I gasped. 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! saw 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. Alassando, in an awestruck whisper, did the saint 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 Alassando, 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 leapt over the rails at my word as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is your Sanurita. 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 until 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. Alassando 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 Sanurita thought, he said. It was the weight on the forehead, with nothing they keep the strings from the skin, which gave her pain. Alassando was making all haste, his hands trembled. We must make all the speed we can, dear Sanurita, 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. Ramona 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, Alassando. They were already now, Ramona on Baba. The two packed nets, swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alassando 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 Alassando, 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 Alassando. 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'm 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 Alassando. The Saints forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman. Can't you say, Ramona? she asked. Alassando hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed him difficult to say Ramona. What was the 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 often as thought of you, since the night I watched all night for you, after you would kiss 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 told you Alassando, said Ramona, leaning from her horse and resting her hand on Alassando'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 a side so close that he touched his shoulders and rested his hand in his mane. If it had been anybody else, then Alassando, 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 Alassando'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. Alassando'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. Alassando running, the poor Indian pony, feeling the contagion, and lopious it had not done for many a day. Mahajal is my name, then, said Ramona. Is it? It is the sweet sound. But I like it better. Mahaya, come here, Mahaya. That will be good, replied Alassando, for the reason that never before had anyone the same name. It will not be hard for me to say Mahaya. I know why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my tongue. Because it was to be that you should call me Mahaya, said Ramona. Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora called me by, and dear Philippe 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 Mahaya now. Alassando's Mahim. End of chapter 15