Ramona

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  XIV

  THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a wordhad passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of theSenora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruela thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had broughtthis about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona.She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness thathe had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to havebeen disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planningor 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, throughher window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept withwide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chanceto hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeedmake bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the firstsound of his footsteps on the veranda floor, "My son, are you ill? Can Ido anything?" came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep atall. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that planagain; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about withsheer impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of thebed, taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. TheSenora sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. Itwas very hot; a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had beenblowing all day, and every living creature was more or less prostratedby it.

  As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Takingout a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidlywriting. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to herthat it was for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She wasasleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in hishand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedlywatching him; the sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who satup instantly, and gazed about her with that indescribable expressionpeculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know theyhave. "Have I been asleep?" she asked.

  "About one minute, mother," answered Felipe, who was leaning, as hespoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him.Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, hesaid, "This heat is intolerable!" Then he sauntered leisurely down theveranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself on the benchunder the trellis there.

  The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold withfear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if theSenora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. Butfortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozingoff again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona.As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senoraopened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she wasgoing into the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe.

  "Are you going to your room, Ramona?" said the Senor.

  "I was," replied Ramona, alarmed. "Did you want me here?"

  "No," said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again.

  In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands.

  "Dear Ramona," Felipe had written, "I am distracted because I cannotspeak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain thingsto you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandrowill surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but yousaw 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 herbosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeingthat the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a replyto Felipe, though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it tohim, there was no telling. "Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. Iam not unhappy. I understand all about it. But I must go away as soon asAlessandro comes." Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back tothe veranda. Felipe rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenlybold, stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tiredeyes of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramonawas at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. Henodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. Allwas well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than shewould ever know. This one secret interchange between Felipe and Ramonathen, thus making, as it were, common cause with each other as againsther, and in fear of her, was a step never to be recalled,--a step whosesignificance could scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great andsmall, are apt to overlook such possibilities as this; to forget themomentousness which the most trivial incident may assume when forcedinto false proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheatsout of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except closestudents of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do this, theworld cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters more innocent thanthe tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia that stands branded inmen's thoughts, and not Siberia.

  The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona wasliving in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know howlittle the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had everfelt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill andthis were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, andhope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for aday.

  The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had.All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing whatAlessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him onthe previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would havemade the journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected thatthere might be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. Hewould doubtless return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in casethat proved the only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched ashis fancy dwelt on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in theTemecula village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there wasmonstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that agirl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment contemplate leadingthe life of a poor laboring man's wife. He could not conceive of love'smaking one undertake any such life. Felipe had much to learn of love.Night came; no Alessandro. Till the darkness settled down, Ramona sat,watching the willows. When she could no longer see, she listened. TheSenora, noting all, also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stageof affairs, but she would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swervefrom the line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full ofthe moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill, andflooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just as ithad done on that first night when Alessandro watched with Felipe on theveranda, Ramona pressed her face against the window-panes, and gazed outinto the garden. At each flickering, motion of the shadows she saw theform of a man approaching. Again and again she saw it. Again and againthe breeze died, and the shadow ceased. It was near morning before,weary, sad, she crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxiouseyes, she still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossedher mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said. Inher childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly asshe had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not come,unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her, and she askedherself continually, "Will he ever come! They sent him away; perhaps hewill be too proud to come back!" Then faith would return, and saying toherself, "He would never, never forsake me; he knows I have no one inthe whole world but him; he knows how I love him," she would regaincomposure, and remind herself of the many detentions which might haveprevented his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she washeavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look weresad t
o see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He alsowas anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The girlmight well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear. But whyshould Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It was a badsymptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed, troubleahead,--of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured.

  Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week nowsince Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand,and said: "You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that sheunderstands why I go; and in four days I will be back." One week, and hehad not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertlyinto each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought.

  Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had takenpossession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventhdays she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which hewould be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, outto the highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into thedistance,--the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come backafter dark, whiter and more wan than she went out. As she sat at thesupper-table, silent, making no feint of eating, only drinking glassafter glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even Margarita pitied her. Butthe Senora did not. She thought the best thing which could happen, wouldbe that the Indian should never come back. Ramona would recover from itin a little while; the mortification would be the worst thing, but eventhat, time would heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pridethan to let her wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would havedied before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a wholehousehold to see and gossip about.

  On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, ashe was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, andsaw them; but Ramona did not care. "Felipe!" she cried, "I must, I mustspeak to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep himfrom 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, Felipethought, as he looked compassionately at her.

  "Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!" he replied. "A thousand thingsmight have kept him."

  "Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!" said Ramona. "I know heis 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 beenwithin sight or hearing, the Senora said, "It seems to me that would notbe quite consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' Ifyou thought best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, Isuppose."

  Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. Therewere several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on theplace was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs,emptying the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams ina long shed. In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; ittook one man to watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasonsof his own he liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longertread grapes in the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted workat the still. "No ill but has its good," he thought sometimes, as he laycomfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day,and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy.

  As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close toFelipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone,nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: "Shelooks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot sendto summon back a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is veryperplexing. Most unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?"There was almost a diabolical art in the manner in which the Senoracould, by a single phrase or question, plant in a person's mind theprecise idea she wished him to think he had originated himself.

  "No; of course we can't send for him," replied Felipe, angrily; "unlessit is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on theplace. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. Ibelieve she will die."

  "I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place," said theSenora, gently, "for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; andhe is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying,She may be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro."

  "Of what kind do they die, mother?" asked Felipe, impatiently.

  The Senora looked reproachfully at him. "Not often of any," she said;"but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneaththem, in position, in education, in all points which are essential tocongeniality of tastes or association of life."

  The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussingan abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe forthe moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really adisgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could notbe gainsaid that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro wasundeniably Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the externalmatters of life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandrowas no man's inferior in these; and in capacity to love,--Felipesometimes 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 hehad, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed atRamona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the presentdilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Senda messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he hadbeen an accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that!Ramona ought to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. Andwhen 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 firstcomprehend 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 doto send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if Iwished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?" and she fixed hereyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom.

  "Yes, dear," he answered, "something like that, though you put itharshly."

  "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 stillmore slowly, "If you feel like that, we had better never talk aboutAlessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, asI do, that nothing but his being dead would keep him from comingback. Thanks, dear Felipe;" and after this she did not speak again ofAlessandro.

  Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered ifRamona would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almosteven the Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wastedface, as she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed onthe willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It wouldnever hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, toFather Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble oldman, could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, shecould surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were notmany roads; she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of whichhad been so terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora hadthreatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only sheltershe craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the convent atSan Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father to let her gothere, and she would spend the rest of her life in prayer, and inteaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat revolving thisplan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the future, that shelived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged, old. She saw theprocession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the children by the hand;herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking between two of the littleon
es. 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 justyet, she was too weak; her feet trembled if she did but walk to the footof the garden. Alessandro was dead; there could be no doubt of that.He was buried in that little walled graveyard of which he had toldher. 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 manwould 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 forit; shelter and rest were what she wanted,--the sound of the Church'sprayers, 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, forshe still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the riverroad, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could notgo; her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora,who asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: "No, Senora, I do notthink I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be betterto-morrow."

  "I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the Senora said; and senther both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke downat the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so muchthinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. "Oh,Senorita! Senorita!" she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, "are yougoing to die? Forgive me, forgive me!"

  "I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied Ramona, raisingherself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's faceas she took the broth from her hands. "I do not know why you ask me toforgive you."

  Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion ofweeping. "Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!"

  "No, I know nothing," replied Ramona; "but if you know anything, it isall forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away," sheadded, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that shecould trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would nolonger be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. "I am goingaway, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to aconvent; but the Senora does not know. You will not tell?"

  "No, Senorita!" whispered Margarita,--thinking in her heart, "Yes, sheis going away, but it will be with the angels."--"No, Senorita, I willnot tell. I will do anything you want me to."

  "Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I thought you would;" and shelay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more likedeath than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before,and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, "Mother, mother! the Senorita isill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is aswhite as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever."

  "Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; "ay, she haswasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I haveseen 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 tofurther define the day.

  "Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again," continuedMargarita.

  "The saints grant it, then," said Marda, hotly, "if it is he has costthe Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all,that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed upwith whatever 'tis has gone wrong."

  "I could tell what it is," said Margarita, her old pertness cominguppermost for a moment; "but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita'slying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break yourheart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for allI've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be withhim before long; I know she is."

  "No," said the wiser, older Marda. "She is not so ill as you think. Sheis young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been thatway myself. People are, when they're young."

  "I'm young!" retorted Margarita. "I've never been that way."

  "There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl," said Marda,significantly; "and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverbwhen I was your age!"

  Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own childof hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita'sfather, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, wereperpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother anddaughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enoughto surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantlyleading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjustand ill-founded.

  "She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do," thought Margarita."I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me;never,--not till after she's gone."

  A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself onthe bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it werenot to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant togo! No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gonewith him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a loverever wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed thethought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for havinghad it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yetso strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passionwere to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never beendeeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, andshe remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion ofdispleasure at the recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Nowthat the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had noroom for anything but pity for her; but let Alessandro come on the stageagain, and all would be changed. The old hostility would return. It wasbut a dubious sort of ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedlysecured in Margarita. She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds.

  It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramonahad lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herselfbegan to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant ofall thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemedtorpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforcedrests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide overcrises, strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should beslain.

  As Ramona lay half unconscious,--neither awake nor yet asleep,--on thisevening, 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 stillas death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She satup in her bed, intent--half alarmed--half glad--bewildered--alive. Whathad happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fastdeepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered sensesand faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition she looked aroundthe room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands, andleaped from the bed. "Alessandro is not dead!" she said aloud; and shelaughed hysterically. "He is not dead!" she repeated. "He is not dead!He is somewhere near!"

  With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. Afterthe first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did nottremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. "Oh, miracle!" she thought,as she hastened down the garden-walk; "I am well again! Alessandro isnear!" So vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willowsand 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 Imad? Is it this way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are asI have been!"

  But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! thiswas no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; arevelation. Alessandro was near.

  Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the
keenergrew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her presentmood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure thatshe was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro.

  As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarterof 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 beAlessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near the housewhere he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was late to meeta stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely still; so stillthat, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied it might be anoptical illusion. She advanced a few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped.As she did so, the man advanced a few steps, then stopped. As he cameout from the shadows of the trees, she saw that he was of Alessandro'sheight. She quickened her steps, then suddenly stopped again. What didthis mean? It could not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agonyof suspense. An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; butterror held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, sheturned to walk back to the house, saying, "I must not run the risk ofits being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come."

  But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slowerand slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man hadreturned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against thetree.

  "It may be a messenger from him," she said; "a messenger who has beentold not to come to the house until after dark."

  Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few momentsmore brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was--yes, itwas Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away,his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, ratherthan ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps,turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they wereclasped in each other's arms before they had looked in each other'sfaces. Ramona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and lookingup, she began: "Alessandro--" But at the first sight of his face sheshrieked. Was this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man,who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! "O God,"cried Ramona, "You have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, whatis it?"

  Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying tocollect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyesfixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding bothher hands in his.

  "Senorita," he said, "my Senorita!" Then he stopped. His tongue seemedto refuse him utterance; and this voice,--this strange, hard, unresonantvoice,--whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.

  "My Senorita," he began again, "I could not go without one sight of yourface; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. Ifyou had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you."

  Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean?Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.

  "Heavens, Senorita!" he cried, "have you not heard? Do you not know whathas happened?"

  "I know nothing, love," answered Ramona. "I have heard nothing sinceyou went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-nightsomething told me that you were near, and I came to meet you."

  At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his armsaround her again. As she said "love," his whole frame shook withemotion.

  "My Senorita!" he whispered, "my Senorita! how shall I tell you! Howshall I tell you!"

  "What is there to tell, Alessandro?" she said. "I am afraid of nothing,now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought."

  But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, strainingher closer to his breast, he cried: "Dearest Senorita! I feel as ifI should die when I tell you,--I have no home; my father is dead;my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now,Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!"As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself againstthe tree, added: "I am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving."

  Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see itslook 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 sentyou to me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had notcome."

  While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Liftingit 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," hesaid, "and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, toseem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was littleenough I had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believethat you could come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I hadthought of many things I could do; and--" lowering his voice andspeaking almost sullenly--"it is the saints, I believe, who havepunished me thus for having resolved to leave my people, and take all Ihad for myself and you. Now they have left me nothing;" and he groaned.

  "Who?" cried Ramona. "Was there a battle? Was your father killed?" Shewas 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 itwould only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he beggedme to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. Hefelt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. Wehad often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't yourecollect, Senorita, I told you about him,--how fair he always was, andkind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon we've harvested milesand 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 hismen to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would betrouble; and well they might,--turning a whole village full of men andwomen and children out of their houses, and driving them off like foxes.If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead,if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was nohelp for us."

  "But, Alessandro," interrupted Ramona, "I can't understand. Who was itmade Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?"

  "I don't know who they are," Alessandro replied, his voice full ofanger and scorn. "They're Americans--eight or ten of them. They all gottogether and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and itwas decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr.Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody couldgo against the law."

  "Oh," said Ramona, "that's the way the Americans took so much of theSenora'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 Generalhad always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the UnitedStates Government."

  "They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!" criedAlessandro. "They are going to steal all the land in this country; wemight all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them haveit. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; butI did not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but hewas right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to bethankful for now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and Iprayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. Henever knew anything clear after they took him out of his house. That wasbefore I got there. I found him sitting on the ground outside. They saidit was the sun that had turned him crazy; but it was not. It was hisheart breaking in his bosom. He would not come out of his house, andthe men lifted him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on theground; and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when hesaw them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out,'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said itwas a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobodycould
stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling. God!Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I got there,some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head, to keep thesun off. He did not call any more, only for water, water. That was whatmade them think the sun had done it. They did all they could; but it wassuch a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the sheriff's men were ingreat hurry; they gave no time. They said the people must all be off intwo days. Everybody was running hither and thither. Everything out ofthe houses in piles on the ground. The people took all the roofs offtheir houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they would doagain. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is likedeath. I can't!"

  Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love,in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken likethis.'

  "Don't weep, Senorita," said Alessandro, drearily. "Tears kill one, anddo no good."

  "How long did your father live?" asked Ramona, clasping her arms closeraround his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona,yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the oneto be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as ifhe had been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown hisenfeebled and benumbed condition, as the manner in which he receivedthese 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 cameaway. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, isalmost 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 takeenough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit upin 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 werenot enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up inhorses; and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove thecattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's head before anyAmerican should ever have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachangawith my father. He would not stir a step for anybody but me; so I ledhim all the way; and then after he got there he was so ill I never lefthim a minute. He did not know me any more, nor know anything that hadhappened. I built a little hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till hedied. When I put him in his grave, I was glad."

  "In Temecula?" asked Ramona.

  "In Temecula." exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. "You don't seem tounderstand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to ourgraveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to behanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in were arough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw himtrespassing on their property."

  "Their property!" ejaculated Ramona.

  "Yes; it is theirs," said Alessandro, doggedly. "That is the law.They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father alwayssaid,--if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they neverdid 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 fathermurdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita,my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin?But, my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I willspeak no more."

  "No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do notshare. Tell me about Jose," cried Ramona, breathlessly.

  "Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a yearago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was theonly other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and thatsplendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at homewhen the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking.That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little babyonly 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 sheriffriding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Joseknew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with myfather, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in oneminute, and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fitlike that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he woulddie. 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 firstday as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on theground 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 torun with my father's violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask herto hide it for us; Jose knew it was worth money. But before noon thesecond day he had another fit, and died in it,--died right in his owndoor, carrying out some of the things; and after Carmena--that's hiswife's name--saw he was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking backand forth on the ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over toPachanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long processionof us."

  "Where is Pachanga?" asked Ramona.

  "About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I toldthe people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong toanybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't anywater; that's the worst of it."

  "No water!" cried Ramona.

  "No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by itas soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all.I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her onone 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; butit did live till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hoursbefore he died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl,and sat down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'Howis the little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead.'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We willbury them together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at nightshe helped me dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father'sbreast; but she said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug itherself; and we put them in; and she never spoke, except that once. Shewas sitting there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of twolittle 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 thelittle baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the blessedfortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!"

  "Where did they bury Jose?" gasped Ramona.

  "In Temecula," said Alessandro. "Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men diga grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go atnight and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is verydark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not staylonger. Can I go as far as the brook with you, safely, without beingseen? The saints bless you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived,I think, without one more sight of your face;" and, springing to hisfeet, Alessandro stood waiting for Ramona to move. She remainedstill. She was in a sore strait. Her heart held but one impulse, onedesire,--to go with Alessandro; nothing was apparently farther fromhis thoughts than this. Could she offer to go? Should she risk laying aburden on him greater than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, ashe said, would his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herselfstrong and able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knewnothing 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 notoften. If I think of you by any
other name than as my Senorita, it isusually by a name you never heard."

  "What is it?" exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.

  "An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,--thewood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thoughtmy people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. Itis a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you."

  Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, shelaid 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 toyour people."

  Alessandro's silence astonished her. "You are surprised," she said. "Ithought you would be glad."

  "The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita," he said. "I knewit!"

  "How?" cried Ramona. "And you never told me, Alessandro!"

  "How could I?" he replied. "I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me."

  "Juan Canito!" said Ramona, musingly. "How could he have known?" Then ina 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 hegave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of myfather."

  "Yes, you have, my Senorita," replied Alessandro, tenderly. "After Iknew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to melike 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 withoutpremeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of whatshe 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 thanhave you leave me again!"