 CHAPTER 8 Philippe gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvia de Rohed said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with little apparent change, no pain but a weakness so great that it was almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the only thing that roused him from his half-lethargic state. Sometimes he would talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate and show for a few moments something like his old animation, but he was soon tired and would close his eyes, saying, I will speak with you again about this, Alessandro. I'm going to sleep now. Sing. The senora seeing Philippe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence soon came to have a warm feeling towards him herself. Moreover, she greatly liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a sureer road to the senora's favor for man or woman than to be cherry of speech and reserved in demeanor. She had an instinctive kinship to all that was silent, self-contained, mysterious and human nature. The more she observed Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can he did not know how matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he had he would have been in a fever of apprehension and would have got at swords points with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all unaware of the real situation of affairs and never quite sure that the Mexican he dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune and appear asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise Alessandro to the senora. She never visited his bedside that he had not something to say in favor of the lad, as he called him. Truly, senora, he said again and again, I do marvel where the lad got so much knowledge at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep business. He knows more than any shepherd I have a deal more, and it is not only of sheep. He has had experience too in the handling of cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once already for a remedy of which he knew not, and such modesty withal. I knew not that there were such Indians, surely there cannot be many such. No, I fancy not, the senora would reply absently. His father is a man of intelligence and has trained his son well. There is nothing he is not ready to do, continued Alessandro's eulogist. He is as handy with tools as if he had been prenticed to a carpenter. He's made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief like salve to a wound so much easier was it than before. He is a good lad, a good lad. None of these sayings of Juans were thrown away on the senora. More and more closely she watched Alessandro, the very thing which Juan had feared and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working in the senora's mind that she might do a worse thing than engage this young, strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ. The possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would hesitate about becoming permanently a servant even to the senora Moreno did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty of time before Juan Khan's leg was well. She would study the young man more. In the meantime she would cause Felipe to think of the idea and propose it. So one day she said to Felipe, What a voice that Alessandro has, Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not? He's not going, exclaimed Felipe startled. Oh no, no, not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Khan was about again. But that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I suppose. You forget how time has flown while you've been lying here ill, my son. True, true said Felipe. Is it really a month already? And he sighed. Juan Khan tells me that the lad has a marvelous knowledge for one of his years, continued the senora. He says he is as skilled with cattle as with sheep, knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had such behaviour. Old Pablo is just like him, said Felipe. It was natural enough living so long with Father Perry. And I've seen other Indians too with a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them. I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you will be well and strong, said the senora. You would not miss him then, would you? Yes, I would too, said Felipe, perishly. He was still weak enough to be childish. I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as any man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on any ranch. Were you thinking of hiring him permanently, asked the senora in a surprise tone? I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are all poor, I suppose. He would not work with the sheers if you were not poor. Oh, it isn't that, said Felipe impatiently. You can't understand because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we are. Some of them, I mean, such men as Old Pablo. They shear sheep for money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference. Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village obey Pablo just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith much more so, added Felipe, laughing. You can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I'm not at all sure I could offer Alessandro a cease money enough to tempt him to stay here as my servant. The senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. No, I do not understand it, she said. Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that these noble lords of villages are so proud? Their ancestors? Naked savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves, too, today if we had not come here to teach and symbolize them? The race was never meant for anything but servants. That was all the fathers ever expected to make of them. Good, faithful Catholics, and contented labors in the field? Of course there are always exceptional instances, and I think myself Alessandro is one. I don't believe, however, he is so exceptional, but that if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wage as you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of staying on the place. Well, I shall think about it, said Felipe. I'd like nothing better than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think about it. Which was all the senora wanted done at present. Ramona had a chance to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing Alessandro's name, she seated herself at the window, looking out, but listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done this much, that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any more than when she thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita had done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not help it. I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro, she said to herself, many a time. I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder if the senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is. When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro a cease money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips suddenly as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. She had sometimes displeased the senora by taking part in conversations between her and her son. Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after his mother had left the room before he asked Ramona what she was on the point of saying. As soon as the senora went out he said, what was it Ramona you were going to say just now? Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it. Tell me Ramona, persisted Felipe, you were going to say something about Alessandro staying, I know you were. Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself embarrassed before Felipe. And she liked Alessandro, said Felipe. Oh, yes, replied Ramona with instant eagerness. It was not that at all, I like him very much. But then she stopped. Well, what is it then, have you heard anything on the place about it staying? Oh, no, no, not a word, said Ramona. Everybody understands that he is here only till Juan Can gets well, but you said you did not believe you could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay. Well, said Felipe inquiringly, I do not, do you? I think he would like to stay, said Ramona hesitatingly. That was what I was going to say. What makes you think so, asked Felipe. I don't know, Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had said it she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions were not characteristic of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion or jealousy and yet was of kin to them both went through Felipe's mind, went through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it, if he had been he would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian sheep sheerer, impossible. Nevertheless the flitting something left a trace and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident, and after this it was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely than he had done, would weigh her words and actions, and if she should seem by a shade altered in either, would watch still more closely. Meshes were closing around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and act, Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love and perplexity. Only the senora observed her not. If she had, matters might have turned out very differently, for the senora was clear-sided, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, never long deceived, but her observing and discriminating powers were not in focus so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of the senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in so far as her means allowed the senora would, without fail, provide for the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust, but a personal relation with her, a mother's affection, or even interest and acquaintance no. The senora had not that to give, and if she had it not, was she to blame? What could she do? Years ago Father Salviaderra had left off remonstrating with her on this point. Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see lacking, out of miss, the senora would ask, conscientiously, but with pride? And the father, thus inquired of, could not point out a duty which had been neglected? You did not love her, my daughter, he said. No, senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. No, I do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will. That is true, the father would say, sadly, but affection may be cultivated. Yes, if it exists, was the senora's constant answer, but in this case it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and to save my sister Asaro, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to her. It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, be cast into the sea as try to turn the senora's heart in any direction whether it did not of itself tend. All that Father Salvia Dera could do was to love Ramona the more himself, which he did hardly, and more and more each year, and small marvel at it, for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath than this same Ramona, who had been all these years save for Felipe lonely in the senora Moreno's house. Three Watchers of Ramona Now If there had been a fourth, and that fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at school with the nuns, she had never been away from the senora's house. Felipe was the only young man she had known. Felipe, her brother since she was five years old. There were no gayerees in the senora Moreno's home. Monterey, when he needed them, went one day's journey, or two or three to get them, went as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles, but to have asked the senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now infrequent journeys to these places would have required more courage than Ramona possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent school, but she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike than before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy temperament, had kept her singularly contented in her monotonous life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the chapel in order, helped in light household work, embroidered, sung, and, as the senora eight years before had bade her due, said her prayers and pleased Father Salviaderra. By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept strangely free from thoughts of love and marriage. He by living in the shadow, and she by living in the sun. His hearts and thoughts filled with perplexities and fears. Hers filled by a placid routine of light and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child. As the days went on and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing or play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him uncomfortable. The room was large and had two windows, and the door was never shut. Yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling. I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe if I had to stay in that room, enough to pull the strongest man down, said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. Do you think I should anger them if I ask them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put him on a bed of my-making? I'd wager my head, I'd put him on his feet in a week. And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for half of the estate, and get it, lad," replied Juan, seeing the hot blood darkening in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, "'Did not be so hot-blooded. I meant not that she would ask any reward for doing it. I was only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not get up from this sickness, the Senora would not be long behind him. It is but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case I've never been able to find out? Would it not be the Senorita asked Alessandro?' Juan Can laughed and ugly laughed. "'Haha! Let the Senora hear you say that,' he said. "'Faith! It will be little the Senorita gets more than enough for her bread. Maybe out of the Moreno estate. Harkey, Alessandro, if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood, is no relation of theirs. "'Yes,' said Alessandro. Margarita has said to me that the Senorita Ramona was only the foster child of the Senora Moreno.' Foster child,' repeated Juan Can contemptuously, "'There is something to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out, for when I was in Monterey, the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any of their people. But this much I know, and that was that it was the Senora Ortegna that had the girl first in keeping, and there was a scandalous tale about her birth. If Juan Can's eyes had not been purrblind with old age, he would have seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his words more carefully. But he went on. It was after the Senora Ortegna was buried that our Senora returned bringing this child with her, and I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as if she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair and good a child as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood, lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know, her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big St. Joseph there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking to Father Salviderra, and she said, if the child had only the one blood in her veins it would be different. I like not these crosses with Indians. If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word Indian have bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than before, and said, in a low voice, how know you it was the mother that was the Indian? Juan laughed again maliciously. Ha! It is the Ortegna face she has. And that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal by word of the whole coast. There was not a decent woman would have spoken to him except for his wife's sake. But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that the child was, as to Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each moment now? Stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in the relish of his gossip that he noticed nothing. I, I, so I said, he went on, and so it was. There be such saints, you know, though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to hold them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant and leaving it in the Senora's room, and she, poor lady, never having had a child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with her to the last, and I wager me a hard time she had to get our Senora to take the child when she died, except that it was to spite Ortegna, I think our Senora would as soon the child had been dead. Has she not treated her kindly? Asked Alessandro in a husky voice. Juan Can's pride resented this question. Do you suppose the Senora Morena would do an unkindness to one under her roof, he asked loftily? The Senorita has always been in all things like Senor Felipe himself. It was so that she promised the Senora Ortegna I have heard. Does the Senorita know all this? Asked Alessandro. Juan Can crossed himself. Saints save us, no, he exclaimed. I'll not forget to my longest day what it cost me once I spoke in her hearing when she was yet small. I did not know what she heard, but she went to the Senora asking who was her mother, and she said I had said her mother was no good, which in faith I did in no wonder. And the Senora came to me, and she said, Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house, but if ever I hear of your mentioning ought concerning the Senorita Ramona on this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you leave my service. And you'd not do me an ill turn to speak of it, Alessandro, now, said the old man anxiously. My tongue runs away with me lying here on this cursed bed with nothing to do, an active man like me. No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured, said Alessandro, walking away slowly. Here, here, called Juan, what about that plan you had for making a bed for Senor Felipe on the veranda? Was it of rawhide you meant? Ah, I had forgotten, said Alessandro, returning. Yes, that was it. There is great virtue in rawhide tightstretched. My father says that it is the only bed the fathers would ever sleep on in the mission days. I myself like the ground even better, but my father sleeps always on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of it to the senora? Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself, said Juan. It will be as he says. He rules this place now from beginning to end, and it is but yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to the wall, Alessandro. Nay, Juan Canito replied Alessandro kindly. It is not so. My father is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as firmly as ever. I myself obey him as if I were a lad still. What else then but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder, thought Juan? But he answered, It is not so with us, the old are not held in such reverence. That is not well, replied Alessandro. We have been taught differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many years older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of the San Diego mission. I do not know how many years ago. He is long past a hundred years of age. He is blind and childish and cannot walk, but he is cared for by everyone, and we bring him in our arms to every council and set him by my father's side. He talks very foolishly sometimes, but my father will not let him be interrupted. He says it brings bad luck to a front the aged. We will presently be aged ourselves. I, I, said Juan sadly. We must all come to it. It is beginning to look not so far off to me. Alessandro stared, no less astonished, at Juan's unconscious revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been at his. Faith, old man, what name dost give yourself today, he thought, went on with the topic of the raw-hide bed. I may not so soon get speech with Senor Felipe, he said. It is usually when he is sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing, but it makes my heart heavy to see him thus languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and the sun I do believe indeed, Juan. Ask the senorita, then, said Juan. She has his ear at all times. Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him, this suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He could not have told, but he did not wish to speak of it to her. I will speak to the senora, he said, and as luck would have it, at that moment the senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan Khan's health. The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues and slept on them. Yes, she said, they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday that senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on, and when he was well he thought nothing could be so good. He brought it here at a great price for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would throw me off as soon as I lay down. It is a cheating device like all these innovations the Americans have brought into the country. But senor Felipe till now thought it a luxury. Now he tosses on it and says it is throwing him all the time. Alessandro smiled in spite of his reverence for the senora. I once lay down on one myself senora, he said, and that was what I said to my father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck. I thought perhaps the invention was of the saints that men should not sleep too long. There's a pile of rawhide, said Juan, well cured but not too stiff. Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold. One of those will be just right, it might not be too dry. The fresher the better, said Alessandro, so it have no dampness. Shall I make the bed senora, he asked? And will the senora permit that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Señor Felipe into the outer air. With us it is thought death to be shut up in walls as he has been so long. Not till we are sure to die do we go into the dark like that. The senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor of fresh air. Night and day both, she said. Surely it is not well to sleep out in the night. That is the best of all, senora, replied Alessandro earnestly. I beg the senora to try it. If Señor Felipe have not mended greatly after the first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar. No, only mistaken, said the senora gently. She felt herself greatly drawn to this young man by his devotion as she thought of Felipe. When I die and leave Felipe here she had more than once said to herself, it would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this on the place. Very well, Alessandro, she replied, make the bed and we will try it at once. This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west when Ramona, sitting as usual on the veranda at her embroidery, saw Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the rawhide bed. What can that be, she said, some new invention of Alessandro's, but for what? A bed for the Señor Felipe, Señorita, said Alessandro, running lightly up the steps. The senora has given permission to place it here on the veranda, and Señor Felipe is to lie here day and night, and it will be a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room which is keeping him weak now. He has no illness. I believe that is the truth Alessandro exclaimed Ramona. I have been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but an hour. When I come here I am well. But the night's too, Alessandro, is it not harmful to sleep out in the night air? Why, Señorita, asked Alessandro simply, and Ramona had no answer except, I do not know, I have always heard so. My people do not think so, replied Alessandro, unless it is cold we like it better. It is good, Señorita, to look up at the sky in the night. I should think it would be, cried Ramona. I never thought of it. I should like to do it. Alessandro was busy with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona would have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than the one that had surprised her a few days previous after the incident with Margarita. All day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain a confused procession of thoughts vague yet intense. Put in words they would have been found to be little more than ringing changes on this idea. The Señorita, Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Señorita, Ramona is alone. The Señorita loves her not, Indian blood, Indian blood. These or something like them would have been the words. But Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked away on the rough posts for Señor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the rawhide, and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of exultant strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven and a new earth. Now when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, "'It must be. I never thought of it. I should like to try it.'" These vague confused thoughts of the day and the days bounding sense of exultant strength combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes, a vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together looking up to them. But when he raised his head all he said was, "'There, Señorita, that is all firm now. If Señor Felipe will let me lay him in this bed, he will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill.'" Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room. "'The bed is already on the veranda,' she exclaimed. "'Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?' Felipe looked up startled. The Señor turned on Ramona, that expression of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive nature far worse than anger. I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the change, Ramona,' she said. I supposed that Alessandro would have informed me when the bed was ready. I'm sorry you came in so suddenly. Felipe is still very weak, you see." "'What is it? What is it?' exclaimed Felipe impatiently. As soon as it was explained to him he was like a child in his haste to be moved. "'That's just what I needed,' he exclaimed. This cursed bed racks every bone in my body and I have longed for the sun more than a thirsty man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro,' he went on, seeing Alessandro in the doorway. "'Come here and take me up in those long arms of yours and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better.' Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby. Indeed it was but a light burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than Alessandro to lift. Ramona chilled and hurt, ran in advance carrying pillows and blankets. As she began to arrange them on the couch the senora took them from her hands, saying, "'I will arrange them myself,' and waved Ramona away. It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would given her no pain she could not conceal, but the girl's nerves were not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears at the first rebuff. The second was too much. She turned and walked swiftly away, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Alessandro saw it, Felipe saw it. To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew, but too well, how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now in his weakness was, Alas, what a pity my mother does not love Ramona. To Alessandro the sight was one drop too much in the cup. As he stooped to lay Felipe on the bed he trembled so that Felipe looked up half afraid. "'Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?' he said, smiling. "'It is not your weight, Señor Felipe,' answered Alessandro, off guard, still trembling, his eyes following Ramona. Felipe saw. In the next second the eyes of the two young men met. Alessandro fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily at Alessandro. Ah, he said, and as he said it he closed his eyes and let his head sink back into the pillow. Is that comfortable? Is that right?' asked the Señora, who had seen nothing. "'The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,' said Felipe. "'Stay, Alessandro. I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has shaken me up a good deal. Wait!' Yes, Señor,' replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda-steps. "'If you are to stay, Alessandro,' said the Señora, I will go and look after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about Señor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?' "'Yes, Señora,' said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Señora's own had been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Señora Moreno's servant. In fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind whether there could be any possibility of his getting away before the expiration of the time for which he had agreed to stay. It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he was asleep. At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some minutes. "'Alessandro,' he said. Alessandro sprang to his feet and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Señor Felipe had been straight into his heart in that one moment's look and Alessandro was preparing for anything. Alessandro said, Felipe. My mother has been speaking to me about your remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old and after this accident will go on crutches the rest of his days poor soul. We are in great need of some man who understands sheep and the care of the place generally.' As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift-changing expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood the surprise. "'I knew you would be surprised,' he said. I told my mother that you would not think of it, that you had stayed now only because we were in trouble. Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave him pleasure. "'Yes, Señor,' he said. That was it. I told Father Salvia de Rua it was not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can earn. Our people are very poor, Señor. I do not know whether my father would think I ought to take the place you offer me or not, Señor. It would be as he said. I will ask him.' "'Then you would be willing to take it?' asked Felipe. "'Yes, Señor, if my father wished me to take it,' replied Alessandro, looking steadily and gravely at Felipe, adding after a second's pause. If you are sure that you desire it, Señor Felipe, it would be a pleasure to me to be of help to you.' And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Señora Moreno's service immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse of passionate desire to remain near Ramona. It had come from a sudden consciousness that the Señor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro was not mistaken. CHAPTER IX When the Señora came back to the veranda she found Felipe asleep, Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his breast watching him. As the Señora drew near, Alessandro felt again the same sense of donning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to Ramona. He lowered his eyes and waited to be dismissed. "'You can go now, Alessandro,' said the Señora. "'I will sit here. You are quite sure that it will be safe for Señor Felipe to sleep here all night?' "'It will cure him before many nights,' replied Alessandro, still without raising his eyes and turning to go. "'Stay,' said the Señora, Alessandro paused. It will not do for him to be alone here in the night, Alessandro.' Alessandro had thought of this and had remembered that if he lay on the veranda floor by Señora Felipe's side he would also lie under the Señoreta's window. "'No, Señora,' he replied, "'I will lie here by his side. That was what I had thought, if the Señora is willing.' "'Thank you, Alessandro,' said the Señora, in a tone which would have surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes. She did not know the Señora could speak thus sweetly to any one but Felipe. "'Thank you, you are kind. I will have a bed made for you.' "'Oh, no,' cried Alessandro, if the Señora will excuse me, I could not lie on a bed. A rawhide like Señor Felipe's and my blanket are all I want. I could not lie on any bed.' "'To be sure,' thought the Señora, what was I thinking of? How the boy makes one forget he is an Indian. But the floor is harder than the ground, Alessandro,' she said kindly. "'No, Señora,' he said, "'it is all one, and tonight I will not sleep. I will watch Señor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should wake and need something. I will watch him myself till midnight,' said the Señora, "'I should feel easier to see how he sleeps at first.' It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona from her window saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him spread down the rawhide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Señora take her place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were both going to watch. She wondered why the Señora would never let her sit up and watch with Felipe. I am not of any use to anybody, she thought sadly. She dared not go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At supper the Señora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who in the former times—ah, how far away those former times looked now—had been a greater comfort to Ramona than she realized. She didn't now was sulky and silent. Never came into Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her sometimes with an expression which made Ramona tremble and say to herself, She hates me. She has always hated me since that morning. It had been a long, sad day to Ramona, and as she sat in her window leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up and down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it, nor in any wise disavow or disguise it to her self, that she was glad he loved her. More than this she did not think, beyond this she did not go. Her mind was not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in intercourse with men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro loved her, and distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her she was, as she sat at her window this night, looking out into the moonlit garden. After she had gone to bed she could still hear his slow regular steps on the garden walk, and the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was that she was glad Alessandro loved her. The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines, were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness when Ramona awoke, sat up in her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Philippi's low, regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to it for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the window parted the curtains, and looked out. Noiselessly, she thought, but it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear. Without a sound he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's window. I am here, Senorita, he whispered. Do you want any thing? Has he slept all night like this, she whispered back? Yes, Senorita, he has not once moved. How good, said Ramona, how good! Then she stood still. She wanted to speak to Alessandro, to hear him speak again. But she could think of no more to say. Because she could not, she gave a little sigh. Alessandro took one swift step toward the window. May the saints bless you, Senorita, he whispered fervently. Thank you, Alessandro, murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed, but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn. As the first faint light filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open. Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe, thought Ramona, and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed again, and all was still. I thought she would not have the heart to wake him, said Ramona to herself. The virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure. But I will say a prayer to her instead, and she sank on her knees at the head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall of a spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the ear of the watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose from the floor, turning towards Ramona's window, and now the darkness was so far softened to dusk that the outline of his form could be seen. Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was sure he had heard her voice. Did the Senora speak, he whispered his face close at the curtain. Ramona startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the wooden floor. No, no, Alessandro, she said. I did not speak, and she trembled. She knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to Alessandro what had been the whispered words he heard. She was at her prayers, he thought, ashamed and sorry. Forgive me, he whispered, I thought you called, and he stepped back to the outer edge of the veranda and seated himself on the railing. He would lie down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window. Through the transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly, steadily, till at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful of all else, she knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Ramona would not finish that prayer that day, but her heart was full of thanksgiving and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the book. The sun was up and the canaries, finches, and linets had made the veranda ring with joyous racket before Felipe opened his eyes. The senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro only long enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding her breath, he lay so still. Aught he to sleep so long, she whispered. Till the noon it may be, answered Alessandro, and when he wakes you will see by his eye that he is another man. It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed out right with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him. Alessandro, you are a famous physician, why couldn't that fool from Ventura had known as much? With all his learning he had had me in the next world before many days except for you. Now Alessandro, breakfast, I'm hungry, I had forgotten what the thought of food was like to a hungry stomach. And plenty, plenty, he called, as Alessandro ran toward the kitchen. Bring all they have. When the senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright, his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self, she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment. Then, turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, may heaven reward you, and disappear abruptly in her own room. When she came out her eyes were red, all day she moved and spoke with a softness unwanted, indeed inconceivable. She even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She felt like one brought back from the dead. After this a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on the veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody. The servants came to look up at him and wish him well from the garden walk below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches Alessandro had made him, of Manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way round the house to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The Senora sat there in the big carved chair, looking like a symbol with her black silk-banded headdress, severely straight across her brow, and her large dark eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona lived there, too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on the floor in a corner or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed, however, if anybody had noticed, but nobody did, so placed that she could look at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if the Senora were not in it. Here also came Alessandro many times a day, sometimes sent for, sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or sang, he sat on the upper step of the stairs, leading down to the garden. He also had a secret which he thought all his own in regard to the positions he chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot which best commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own, Felipe knew it, nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bombshell exploding at their feet would not have more astonished the different members of this circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro. Then it would, too, have been made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at them all. It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled with jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came he was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die. It did not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and ever again be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of his own death always came the thought of Ramona, what would become of her if he were gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would be broken, that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe adored his mother, but he understood her feeling about Ramona. With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him, had always loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a little at himself that this gave him no more pain. Only a sort of sweet, mournful tenderness toward her. It must be because he was so soon going out of the world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new quality was coming into his love for her. He himself was returning to the brother-love which he had had for her when they were children together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a man and Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon Felipe, when this was finally clear and settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more misgivings and fear about his mother in the matter than he had ever admitted to himself. Perhaps also the consciousness of Ramona's unfortunate birth had rankled at times. But all this was past now. Ramona was his sister, he was her brother. What course should he pursue in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could he best help Ramona? What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought of any possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in forecasting, plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his life he felt himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence her he knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was concerned Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar, and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as foster-child in the house of the Moreno's. Would the Senora permit such a one to marry an Indian? Felipe doubted. The longer he thought the more he doubted. The more he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother. But Felipe was by nature indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. It was exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him. His mother was gentler, less sad than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was always at hand, ready for any service, in the field, in the house. His music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his personal presence always agreeable. If only my mother could think it reflected Felipe, it would be the best thing, all round, to have Alessandro stay here, as overseer of the place. And then they might be married. Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so. And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied vines. The garden was a shade brown and the roses had all fallen, but there were lilies and orange blossoms and poppies and carnations and geraniums in the pots and musk. Oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was like an enchanter's spell and the knack the senora had of forever keeping relays of musk to bloom all the year, and it was still more like an enchanter's spell that Felipe would never confess that he hated it. But the bees liked it and the hummingbirds, the butterflies also, and the air was full of them, the veranda was a quieter place now as the season's noon grew near. The linets were all nesting and the finches and the canaries too, and the senora spent hours every day tirelessly feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their thickest. No need any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up that first morning to keep the sun off Felipe's head. What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot as this? To-morrow, said Felipe, I will speak to my mother and to-morrow and to-morrow, but he did not. There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge was going to take she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be as it fell out. But that the hour and the way for her revenge would come she never doubted. When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his ease and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger was almost beyond bounds. Oh, ho! Like a member of the family, quite so, she sneered. It is new times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house, and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited. We shall see. We shall see what comes of all this. And she knew not which she hated the more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona. Since the day of the scene at the artichoke field, she had never spoken to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her. As soon as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. A man should not be rude to any maiden, he thought, and he hated to remember how he had pushed Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away. When he had, in the outset, made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's resentment was not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how little Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them. Let him go to his senorita, she said bitterly, mocking the reverential tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the word. It was fond enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to throw herself at his head before long, if this kind of thing keeps up. It is not well to speak thus freely of young men, Margarita. Ha! Ha! Little I thought that day which way the wind set in my mistress's temper. A wager she reproves me no more, under this roof or any other. Curse her. What did she want of Alessandro, except to turn his head, and then bid him go away? To do Margarita justice she never once dreamed of the possibility of Ramona's wedding Alessandro, a clandestine affair, an intrigue of more or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any one of the shepherds. This was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro. There was not, in her way of looking at things, any possibility of such a thing as that. But marriage it might be questioned whether that idea would have been any more startling to the senora herself than to Margarita. Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not know. The girl was always like a sprite, here, there, everywhere, in an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved swifter than ever and saw and heard even more. There were few hours of any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and Ramona were, and there had been few meetings between them which she had not either seen or surmised. In the simple life of such a household as the senoras, it was not strange that this was possible. Nevertheless it argued and involved untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. In Felipe, who thought himself, from his vantage post of observation on the veranda, and from his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most that happened, would have been astonished to hear all that Margarita could have told him. In the first days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him much, had told him Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and bathe and keep alive the green ferns which she had decorated the chapel for Father Salviadera's coming, had said, Oh, Senorita, they are dead. Do not take trouble with them. I will bring you fresh ones. And the next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of such ferns as she had never before seen, tall ones like ostrich plumes, six and eight feet high, the feathery maiden-hair and the gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as she had ever found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a conservatory, after she arranged them in vases and around the high candlesticks. It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke patch all of the last year's seed-vessels, which had not been trampled down by the cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made wreaths of them, and so they were, more beautiful than any paper-flowers which ever were made, great soft round discs of fine, straight threads like silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them, of sharp, stiff points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the strangest thing in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay there on the ground. She had put a great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and a bunch in the Madonna's hand, and when the senora saw them, then she exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been made of silk and satin. And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian women at Pala, and one which had come from the north, from the Tulare country, it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds, red and yellow in alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a bright-colored bird. And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black, and came all the way from Catalina Island. A friend of Alessandro's got it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed that there was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and goodwill. Often too Ramona had much to tell that Alessandro had said, tales of the old mission days that he had heard from his father, stories of saints, and of the early fathers who were more like saints than like men. Alessandro said. Father Junipero, who founded the first missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's grandfather had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. There was a cup out of which the father always took his chocolate for breakfast, a beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the only luxury the father had. In one morning it was broken and everybody was in terror and despair. Never mind, never mind, said the father, I will make it whole. And taking the two pieces in his hands he held them tight together, and prayed over them, and they became one solid piece again, and it was used all through the journey just as before. But now Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief replies and never continued the topic, and Felipe had observed another thing. She now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to others she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her she looked quickly up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance. Alessandro also observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He knew how differently she could look in his face, in the rare moments when they were alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this, but he was mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it. It had happened more than once that he found Ramona at the Willows by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened it was a chance. After that never a chance again for Alessandro went often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not avowed, but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him there, at least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a pleasant spot, cool and shady even at noon, and the running water always full of music. Ramona often knelt there of a morning, washing out a bit of lace or a handkerchief. And when Alessandro saw her it went hard with him to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him vividly. Of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face in the sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that he even now thought her less a saint, but ah, how well he knew her to be human. He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time, and, lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water and played with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like these. Wither have gone the drops that passed beneath her hands, just here. These drops will never find those in the sea, but I love this water. Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly toward it, thinking to herself. He hopes his senorita will come down to him there, a nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover at the washing-stones. It will take swifter water than any in that brook, senorita Ramona, to wash you white in the senora's eyes. If ever she comes upon you there with the head shepherd, making free with him, may be. Oh, but if that could only happen, I'd die content. And the more Margarita watched, the more she thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was often her at the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro met. And as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it had happened to be near supper time, and Margarita, with one eye on the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the senora, hoping to be ordered to call the senorita to supper. If but I could come on them of a sudden and say to her, as she did to me, you are wanted in the house. Oh, but it would do my soul good. I'd say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces. It will come, it will come. It will be there that she'll be caught one of these fine times she's having. I'll wait. It will come. CHAPTER X It came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's most malicious hopes had pictured. But Margarita had no hand in it. It was the senora herself. Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, the senora at ease in her mind about him had resumed her old habit of long lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the senora had not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose in walking over it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she could afford to sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture land which they greatly desired to buy as it joined a pastureage tract of theirs. This bit of land lay farther from the house than the senora realized, and it had taken more time than she thought it would to go over it. And it was already sunset on this eventful day when hurrying home she turned off from the highway into the same shortcut path in which Father Salvir Vera had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now in getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry and had been trampled by cattle. The senora walked rapidly, but it was dusky twilight when she reached the willows. So dusky that she saw nothing, and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown path that she made no sound, until suddenly, face to face with a man and a woman standing locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and in the same second recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, each gazing into her face with terror. Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had stricken her dumb. Terror for Alessandro gave her a voice. Senora she began. Silence, shameful creature cried the senora. Do not dare to speak. Go to your room. Ramona did not move. As for you the senora continued turning to Alessandro. You, she was about to say, you are discharged from my service from this hour, but recollecting herself in time said, you will answer to senora Felipe, out of my sight. And the senora Moreno actually, for once in her life, beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. Out of my sight, she repeated. Alessandro did not stir except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no idea what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma. Go, Alessandro said Ramona calmly, still looking the senora full in the eye. Alessandro obeyed. Before the words had left her lips he had walked away. Ramona's composure and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her own before stirring from the spot were too much for senora Moreno. A wrath such as she had not felt since she was young took possession of her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, senora, the senora did a shameful deed. She struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow. Speak not to me, she cried again, and seizing her by the arm she pushed rather than dragged her up the garden walk. Senora, you hurt my arm, said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid. Was this Ramona? The senora, already ashamed, let go the arm and stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would have thought it capable. What does this mean, thought the senora, still weak and trembling all over from rage? The hussy, the hypocrite! And she seized the arm again. This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and locked on the outside. All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with impatience at the senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had gone to Felipe and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the senorita would not have their supper. No, no, not till the senora returns, Felipe had answered. She too happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew also where the senora had gone and that she would be late home. But he did not know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of the willows at the brook. If he had known it he would have contrived to summon Ramona. When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the senora's pocket. She threw her apron over her head and ran into the back porch. Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona had helped her in times gone by, sheltered her from the senora's displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-claw. Holy virgin, what will be done to her now? She exclaimed under her breath. Margarita had never conceived of such an extremity as this. It was grace and a sharp reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro. This was all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the senora looked as if she might kill her. She always did hate her in her heart, reflected Margarita. She shan't starve her to death anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. But it must have been something shameful the senora saw to have brought her to such a pass as this. And Margarita's jealousy again got the better of her sympathy. Good enough for her. No more than she deserved, an honest fellow like Alessandro that would make a good husband for any girl. Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again. It was an odd thing how identical were Margarita's and the senora's view and interpretation of the situation. The senora looking at it from above and Margarita looking at it from below each was sure, and they were both equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of conjecturing or of believing the truth. As ill luck would have it, or was it good luck, Felipe also had witnessed the scene in the garden walk. Hearing voices he had looked out of his window and almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm. Ramona pale but strangely placid, his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand he groaned out, full that I was to let her be surprised. She has come on them unawares, now she will never, never forgive it, and Felipe threw himself on his bed to think what should be done. Presently he heard his mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained silent, sure she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered and seeing him on the bed came swiftly towards him saying, Felipe, dear, are you ill? He replied in a feeble voice, no mother, only tired a little tonight, and as she bent over him anxious, alarmed, he threw his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. Mother Mia, he said passionately, what should I do without you? The caress, the loving words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. They restored the senora as nothing else could. What mattered anything so long as she had her adoring and adorable son? And she would not speak to him now that he was so tired of this disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could wait till morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and he would not miss Ramona, perhaps. I will send your supper here, Felipe, she said. You must not overdo. You have been walking too much. Lie still. And kissing him affectionately she went to the dining room where Margarita, vainly trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve supper. Then the senora entered with her countenance composed and in her ordinary tones said, Margarita, you can take senora Felipe's supper into his room. He is lying down and will not get up. He is tired. Margarita was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she or had she not, within the last half hour, seen the senora shaking and speechless with rage, pushed the senorita Ramona into her room and lock her up there. She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at the senora, with her mouth wide open. What are you staring at, girl, asked the senora so sharply that Margarita jumped. Oh, nothing, nothing, senora. And the senorita will she come to supper? Shall I call her, she said. The senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The senora Morena was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should treat her with disrespect or know that ought was wrong. The senorita is not well, she said coldly. She is in her room. I myself will take her some supper later if she wishes it. Do not disturb her. And the senora returned to Felipe. Margarita chuckled inwardly and proceeded to clear the table she had spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those two short hours, how much had happened? Small appetite for supper will our senorita have, I reckon, said the bitter Margarita. And the senora Alessandro also. I am curious to see how he will carry himself. But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen. The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone. It was past nine o'clock and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the places where she knew he was in the habit of going, but Alessandro was not to be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding place that he thought he was discovered and was on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace, and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium clump at the chapel door, sitting on the ground with his knees drawn up to his chin, watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night. He felt that he might be needed. If Ramona wanted him she would either open her window and call, or would come out and go down through the garden walk to the willows. In either case he would see her from the hiding place he had chosen. He was wracked by his emotions, mad with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She had said she would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but just passed her lips at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived the scene over again he re-experienced the joy and the terror equally. What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the Senorita was half-Indian, why should she think it's so dreadful a thing for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's mind that the Senora could have had any other thought seeing them as she did in each other's arms. And again, what had he to give to Ramona? Could she live in a house such as he must live in? Live as the Temecula women lived? No. For her sake he must leave his people, must go to some town, must do, he knew not what, something to earn more money. Which seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his to look forward thus to the practical details of life. He had only gone on loving and in a vague way dreaming and hoping. And now, now in a moment all had been changed. In a moment he had spoken and she had spoken. And such words once spoken there was no going back. And he had put his arms around her and felt her head on his shoulder and kissed her. Yes, he Alessandro had kissed the Senorita Ramona and she had been glad of it and had kissed him on the lips as no maiden kisses a man unless she will wed him. Him Alessandro. Oh no wonder the man's brain whirled as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering, afraid, helpless. His love wrenched from him in the very instant of their first kiss, wrenched from him, and he himself ordered by one who had the right to order him to be gone. What could an Indian do against a Moreno? Would Felipe help him? Aye, there was Felipe. That Felipe was his friend Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's instinct for the shelter of her brood. But could Felipe move the Senora? Oh, that terrible Senora. What would become of them? As in the instant of drowning men are said to review in a second the whole course of their lives. So in this supreme moment of Alessandro's love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act of Ramonas since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which she had said and the surprise with which he heard her say it at the time of Felipe's fall. You are Alessandro, are you not? He heard again her soft whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. He recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner. The evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without food. Oh God, will she always have food each day if she comes with me, he said, and at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago when he first told her he loved her and his heart took courage. She had said, I know you love me Alessandro and I am glad of it, and had lifted her eyes to his with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry. And when he threw his arms around her she had of her own accord come closer and laid one hand on his shoulder and turned her face to his. Ah, what else mattered? There was the whole world. If she loved him like this nothing could make them wretched. His love would be enough for her and for him hers was an empire. It was indeed true, though neither the Signora nor Margarita would have believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first moment of unreserved. It had come about as lovers' first words, first caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition at the instant than there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. Ramona had been speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard to remaining on the place, and asked her if she knew of the plan. Yes, she said, I heard the Signora talking about it with Felipe some days ago. Was she against my staying, asked Alessandro quickly? I think not, said Ramona, but I am not sure. It is not easy to be sure what the Signora wishes till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed it. This somewhat enigmatic statement as to the difficulty of knowing the Signora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind. I do not understand, Signorita, he said. What do you mean by afterward? I mean, replied Ramona, that the Signora never says she wishes anything. She says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to father Salvador there, but I think it is always decided as she wishes to have it after all. The Signora is wonderful, Alessandro. Don't you think so? She loves Signor Felipe very much, was Alessandro's evasive reply. Oh yes, exclaimed Ramona, you do not begin to know how much. She does not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any left. If he had died she would have died too. That is the reason she likes you so much. She thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that is one reason, added Ramona smiling and looking up confidingly at Alessandro, who smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that the Signorita was pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the Signora's regard. I do not think she likes me, he said. I cannot tell why, but I do not think she likes anyone in the world. She is not like anyone I ever saw Signorita. No replied Ramona thoughtfully she is not. I am, oh so afraid of her Alessandro. I have always been ever since I was a little girl. I used to think she hated me, but now I think she does not care one way or the other if I keep out of her way. While Ramona spoke these words her eyes were fixed on the running water at her feet. If she had looked up and seen the expression in Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would have drawn near faster, would have arrived at that moment. But she did not look up. She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for Alessandro. Many is the time I have come down here at night to this brook and looked at it, and wished it was a big river so I could throw myself in and be carried away out to the sea dead. But it is a fearful sin, Father Salvir Thera says, to take one's own life. And always the next morning when the sun came out and the birds sang, I have been glad enough I had not done it. Are you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro? No, Senorita never replied, Alessandro, and it is thought a great disgrace among us to kill oneself. I think I could never do it. But oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will you always be so? Must you always stay here? Oh, but I am not always unhappy, said Ramona, with her sunny little laugh. Indeed I am generally very happy. Father Salvir Thera says that if one does no sin one will always be happy, and that it is a sin not to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work there is to do, and there is always plenty of that. Then her face clouding she continued, I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no other home. You know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died when I was little. And the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvir Thera says I must never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for me, and I try not to. Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to him of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to cry out, O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins. Come to me. Come to me. Be surrounded with love. But he dared not. How could he dare? Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue tonight. She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or burdens, but she went on. The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will not tell me who my mother was, and I do not know if she is alive or not or anything about her. Once I asked the senora, but she forbade me ever to ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper for me to know, but she never has. How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to him or repel her? Have you never asked her again, he said? Ramona looked up astonished. No one ever disobeyed the senora, she said quickly. I would exclaim, Alessandro. You may think so, said Ramona, but you couldn't. When you tried, you would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvier Thera once. And did he say, asked Alessandro, breathless? The same thing, he said I must not ask, I was not old enough. When the time came I would be told, answered Ramona sadly. I don't see what they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant? I do not know the ways of any people but my own senorita, replied Alessandro. Many things that your people do, and still more that these Americans do, are to me so strange I know nothing what they mean. Perhaps they do not know who was your mother. I am sure they do answered Ramona in a low tone as if the words were rung from her. But let us talk about something else, Alessandro, not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your staying here. Would it be truly a pleasure to the senorita Ramona if I stayed, said Alessandro? You know it would, answered Ramona frankly, yet with a tremor in her voice which Alessandro felt. I do not see what we could any of us do without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go. Alessandro's face glowed. It must be as my father says, senorita, he said. A messenger came from him yesterday and I sent him back with a letter telling him what the senor Felipe had proposed to me and asking him what I should do. My father is very old, senorita, and I do not see how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope he will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to do for the village. Most of our people are poor and can do little more than get what they need to eat day by day. And my father wishes to see them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big fence built around our land so as to show where it is. Both people cannot take much time to work on the fence. They need all their time to work for themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live now, senorita. Were you ever in Temecula? No, said Ramona. Is it a large town? Alessandro sighed. Dear senorita, it is not a town. It is only a little village, not more than twenty houses in all. And some of those are built only of tulle. There is a chapel and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do before we built the fence round the village. How many people are there in the village? Asked Ramona. Nearly two hundred when they are all there. But many of them are away most of the time. They must go where they can get work. They are hired by the farmers or to do work on the great ditches or to go as shepherds, and some of them take their wives and children with them. I do not believe the senorita has ever seen any very poor people. Oh yes, I have Alessandro at Santa Barbara. There were many poor people there, and the sisters used to give them food every week. Indians, said Alessandro. Ramona colored. Yes, she said. Some of them were. But not like your men, Alessandro. They were very different, miserable looking. They could not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition. That is the trouble, said Alessandro, with so many of them. It is with my father's people, too. They say, what is the use? My father gets in despair with them because they will not learn better. He gives them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it. There is only one other man in our village who can read and write besides my father and me senorita, and yet my father is all the time begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But they say they have no time, and indeed there is much truth in that senorita. You see, everybody has trouble, senorita. Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her. Until tonight neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and personal matters. Ah, but these are real troubles, she said. I do not think mine were real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people, Alessandro. If the village were only nearby, I could teach them, could I not? I could teach them to read. The sisters always said that to teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I wish I could teach your people. Have you any relatives there besides your father? Is there anyone in the village that you love, Alessandro? Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people to observe the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question. Yes, senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters, all of my father's people, he said, and I am unhappy about them all the time. During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of thought going on which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held to Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared his father would not let him remain away from home for any length of time. At the thought of his going away her very heart sickened. Taking a sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, Alessandro, I am afraid your father will not give his consent to your staying here. So am I, senorita, he replied sadly. And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course, she said. How could I, senorita? No, she said, it would not be right. But as she said these words, the tears filled her eyes. Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. Senorita, senorita Ramona, he cried, tears have come in your eyes. Oh, senorita, then you will not be angry if I say that I love you. And Alessandro trembled with the terror and delight of having said the words. Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper. I know that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it. Yes, this was what the senorita Ramona was saying. And when he stammered, but you, senorita, you do not, you could not. Yes, Alessandro, I do, I love you, in the same clear, firm whisper. And the next minute Alessandro's arms were around Ramona and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than saying, Oh, senorita, do you mean that you will go with me, that you are mine? Oh, no, beloved senorita, you cannot mean that. But he was kissing her. He knew she did mean it, and Ramona whispering, Yes, Alessandro, I do mean it, I will go with you, clung to him with her hands and kissed him and repeated it. I will go with you, I love you. And then, just then, came the senora's step and her sharp cry of amazement, and there she stood, no more than an arm's length away, looking at them with her indignant, terrible eyes. What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over as he crouched in the darkness watching. But the bewilderment of his emotions did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in the senora's room, in the senoritas. A faint light in the dining room soon put out, evidently no supper going on there. Only from under Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance. And creeping close to the veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking, the senoras and Felipe's, no word from Ramona. Obviously he fixed his eyes on her window. It was open, but the curtains tight-drawn. No stir, no sound. Where was she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution and infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going to her window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own responsibility. He would wait if it were till daylight, till his love made a sign. Maybe before long senor Felipe would come to his veranda dead, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was near midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch, his mother bending over kissed him, bad him good night, and went into her own room. It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised when, a few minutes after the senora's door closed, he heard a low voice through the vines. Senor Felipe. Hush, Alessandro, whispered Felipe, do not make a sound. Tomorrow morning early I will see you behind the little sheepfold. It is not safe to talk here. Where is the senorita? Alessandro breathed rather than said. In her room answered Felipe. Well, said Alessandro. Yes, said Felipe, hoping he was not lying, and this was all Alessandro had to comfort himself with through his long night of watching. No, not all. One other thing comforted him, the notes of two wood doves that at intervals he heard cooing to each other. The two notes, the call and the answer. Love, here, love, here, and long intervals of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing they told. That is what my Ramona is like, thought he, the gentle wood dove. If she is my wife, my people will call her Mahel, the wood dove. End of chapter 10