Ramona

Ramona Page 25

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  XXV

  EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his searchfor Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in theplace, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from thetown was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of theSan Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised himto search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and anothertook refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, thendisappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also;equally in vain.

  He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one hadheard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captainwould have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew.

  "But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turnhis hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter."

  "That might be," they said; "nobody had ever heard of any such thing,however;" and very much they all wondered what it was that made thehandsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian.

  Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, helingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that hadsailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever heheard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closelywatched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager,searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the childrenknew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find.Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man couldlook like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe madeno confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, foran Indian named Alessandro Assis.

  Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place,and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which theFranciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the Californiacoast was the one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heardFather Salvierderra say that there were in the neighborhood of each ofthe old Missions Indian villages, or families still living. He thoughtit not improbable that, from Alessandro's father's long connection withthe San Luis Rey Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of theseIndians. He would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched;no Indian unquestioned.

  San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, SanLuis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. Hehad spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he foundIndians; miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heartached, and he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of theold Mission buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder.Now Felipe understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, andwhy his mother had been full of such fierce indignation against theheretic usurpers and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscansonce held. He could not understand why the Church had submitted,without fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of theMissions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those Fathers whohad clung to their congregations to the last, and died at their posts.At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of FatherSarria, who had died there of starvation. "He gave us all he had, to thelast," said the old man. "He lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did;and one morning, before he had finished the mass, he fell forward at thealtar and was dead. And when we put him in the grave, his body was onlybones, and no flesh; he had gone so long without food, to give it tous."

  At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knewvery little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, theysaid. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. Theydid not understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, andthe longer he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having evergone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothersat the College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from FatherSalvierderra the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe,that no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra tothe last, they said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not getany certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the daybefore he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilianmonk, to whom he was greatly attached.

  In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terribleomen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heartthan before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown,unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not give up thesearch. As he journeyed southward, he began to find persons who hadknown of Alessandro; and still more, those who had known his father, oldPablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessandro's whereabouts sincethe driving out of his people from Temecula; there was no knowing whereany of those Temecula people were now. They had scattered "like a flockof ducks," one Indian said,--"like a flock of ducks after they arefired into. You'd never see all those ducks in any one place again. TheTemecula people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San DiegoCounty. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, however. TheSenor would better see him. He no doubt knew about Alessandro. He wasliving in a room in the old Mission building. The priest had given itto him for taking care of the chapel and the priest's room, and a littlerent besides. He was a hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; hewould take the last dollar from a poor man."

  It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but hecould not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew hehad gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a largecorner room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. Theroom was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormousfireplace; a few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on theselay the woman, evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to thefeet; the wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor sideof the wall; there was not an article of furniture. "Heavens!" thoughtFelipe, as he entered, "a priest of our Church take rent for such a holeas this!"

  There was no light in the place, except the little which came from thefire. "I am sorry I have no candle, Senor," said the man, as he cameforward. "My wife is sick, and we are very poor."

  "No matter," said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. "I only want toask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me."

  "Yes, Senor," the man replied in a dogged tone,--no man of Temeculacould yet hear the word without a pang,--"I was of Temecula."

  "I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, Isuppose," said Felipe, eagerly.

  At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one seconda bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. Butthe swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start whichhe could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian hadrecognized him. "Ha, ha!" he thought to himself. "Senor Felipe Moreno,you come to the wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!"

  It was Antonio,--Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing;Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what amarvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Morenohouse should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that onthe night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corrala beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all aboutit,--Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star inhis forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such ahorse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now,though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him.Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might heget from Antonio!

  "Yes, Senor, I knew him," he replied.

  "Do you know where he is now?"

  "No, Senor."

  "Do you know where he went, from Temecula?"

  "No, Senor."

  "A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there look
ing forhim."

  "I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey."

  "Where did you see him last?"

  "In Temecula."

  "Was he alone?"

  "Yes, Senor."

  "Did you ever hear of his being married?"

  "No, Senor."

  "Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?"

  "Like this, Senor," with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. "Mostof us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to CapitanGrande, some way down into Lower California."

  Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that theman was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, hesaid, "I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatlydisappointed.

  "I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno," thought Antonio. "I am sorry,Senor," he said.

  It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generousgold-piece, and said, "Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to seeyou so poorly off."

  The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorsefuldid he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well theyhad fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet thefirst duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a secondtime help drifted away from Ramona.

  At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligenceof Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worstforebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had beenalone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale,where he had the promise of work.

  How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth.After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixedthe time so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind aterrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a weekafter Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus,alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; andshe had lent him money on the expectation of selling his violin; butthey had never sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead,she had no more doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, hewould have come back to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow thatever lived, was Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had henot found him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandroand his father. If there had been, it would have been better for theirpeople. "If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you," she said, "itwould have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out oftheir homes here."

  "But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?" asked Felipe."The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myselfhave lost half my estate in the same way."

  "Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!" she said."'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said."

  Felipe asked to see the violin. "But that is not Alessandro's," heexclaimed. "I have seen his."

  "No!" she said. "Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of theIndians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they weredriven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money,if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come alongyet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our moneyback on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long beforethis."

  Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tellher the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her atfirst. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprangto her feet, and cried: "If he's got that girl with him, he's hidingsomewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding,every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your breath asking anyquestions of any of them. They will die before they will tell you onething. They are as secret as the grave. And they, every one of them,worshipped Alessandro. You see they thought he would be over them, afterPablo, and they were all proud of him because he could read andwrite, and knew more than most of them. If I were in your place," shecontinued, "I would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Nowit might just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here,hid somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged him tostay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, though,where he could possibly have left her while he came here."

  Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonishedas now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro mightyet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.

  "If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel," he saidas he rode away; "and we will come by this road and stop to see you."And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to SanPasquale.

  But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into aperplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found thevillage in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, theremainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro,Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,--the family of a manwho had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the villagestood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he foundthat there was no help, that the American had his papers from theland-office, in all due form, certifying that the land was his, hadgiven the man his option of paying for the house or having it burneddown. The man had bought the house; and it was only the week beforeFelipe arrived, that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods andchattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more,the people said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidrodid not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. Hewent to the north. That was all they knew.

  To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughlysearched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see thehouse in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side ofthe valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived init now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley.The American had paid Alessandro something for it,--they did not knowhow much; but Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only theyhad listened to him. He was always telling them this would come. Now itwas too late for most of them to get anything for their farms. One manhad taken the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro'shouse because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. Theywere utterly disheartened, broken-spirited.

  In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses."Where are you going?" he asked of several.

  "Who knows, Senor?" was their reply. "Where can we go? There is noplace."

  When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipeheard her spoken of as "Majella," his perplexity deepened. Finally heasked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona.

  "Never."

  What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was anotherAlessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethoughthimself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandrohad married this wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed bothlike and unlike Ramona?

  Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara.

  Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here,as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would athis first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who hadonly just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara wasaway in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would doequally well, to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; broughtout the tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breathcoming fast with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in FatherGaspara's hasty and blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names,"Alessandro Assis and Majella Fa--"

  Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never havebeen married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whomAlessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night onwhich Ramona had left her
home? Some Indian woman for whom he feltcompassion, or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in whatlonely, forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona?

  Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searchingfarther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took onemore turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest betweenSan Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record ofthe marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna.

  It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another AlessandroAssis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indianconverts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There mighthave been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there weredozens everywhere.

  This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an AlessandroAssis, except in Father Gaspara's book.

  As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man andwoman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children,two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundlesthat their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman wascrying bitterly. "More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!"thought Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a pieceof gold. She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money hadfallen from the skies. "Thanks! Thanks, Senor!" she exclaimed; and theman coming up to Felipe said also, "God reward you, Senor! That is moremoney than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where Icould get work?"

  Felipe longed to say, "Yes, come to my estate; there you shall havework!" In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought,for both the man and the woman had good faces,--were young and strong.But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long forits dwindled fortunes. "No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not," heanswered. "I live a long way from here. Where were you thinking ofgoing?"

  "Somewhere in San Jacinto," said the man. "They say the Americans havenot come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks,Senor; may the saints reward you!"

  "San Jacinto!" After Felipe returned home, the name haunted histhoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known wellin many a distant horizon. "Juan Can," he said one day, "are there manyIndians in San Jacinto?"

  "The mountain?" said Juan Can.

  "Ay, I suppose, the mountain," said Felipe. "What else is there?"

  "The valley, too," replied Juan. "The San Jacinto Valley is a fine,broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It ismostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing.There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of theSan Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is a bigvillage; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they arefierce, Senor!"

  The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no onementioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhapsthere were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe'simpressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might seehim both lifted up and cast down. When he rode into the sleepy littlevillage street of San Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, againstthe southern sky, a superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lightsfrom turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said tohimself, "She is there! I have found her!"

  The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected AuntRi, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden."San Jacinto?" he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip.

  "Yes, Senor," replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses camewhirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escapingbeing knocked down. "That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet,with those black devils of his, if he don't look out," he muttered, ashe recovered his balance.

  Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into hishorse's sides, galloped after them. "Baba! by God!" he cried aloud inhis excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster,shouting as he rode, "Stop that man! Stop that man with the blackhorses!"

  Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Babaas soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what hadhappened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtakenhim, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his ownhorse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, "Baba! Baba!" Baba knew hisvoice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. Forthe second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. Ithad never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's titleto Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise,therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loudvoice, looking suspiciously at Jos, "How did you get him?"

  Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, norcould the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl.Before even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other andtook a long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said:"Wall, Senor,--I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,--it would takeright smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by theother one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em."

  Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona,Jos saw it, and chuckled.

  "Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,"he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum andsubstance of what he had just said, adding: "They belong to an Indianover on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's hiswife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had beenhers ever sence she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think somuch of hosses as they did."

  Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon,throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, "Followalong with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man."

  Found! Found,--the saints be praised,--at last! How should he tell thisman fast enough? How should he thank him enough?

  Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: "I can't explain to you; Ican't tell you. Bless you forever,--forever! It must be the saints ledyou here!"

  "Oh, Lawd!" thought Jos; "another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not,Senor," he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. "It wur Tom Wurmsee led me;I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon."

  "Take me home with you to your house," said Felipe, still trembling withexcitement; "we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear allyou can tell me about them. I have been searching for them all overCalifornia."

  Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweetRamona, he was sure. "I'll take you straight there," he said; "but firstI must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me."

  The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipatedscene of an arrest for horse-stealing. "Good for you, Tennessee!" and,"Fork over that black horse, Jos!" echoed from the departing groups.Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that they could affordto slight so notable an occasion as this.

  As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw hismother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off herhead, her spectacles pushed up in her hair.

  "Why, thar's mammy!" he exclaimed. "What ever hez gone wrong naow?"

  Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatchingher bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, "Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar!Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!"

  Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the soundof the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos'sside. "Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro'sgot killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz anInjun come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent."

  "Good God! Alessandro killed!" burst from Felipe's lips in aheart-rending voice.

  Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication
wasalmost beyond him. "Oh, Lawd!" he gasped. Turning to Felipe, "Thet'smammy," he said. "She wuz real fond o' both on 'em." Turning to hismother, "This hyar's her brother," he said. "He jest knowed me by Baba,hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar."

  Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, shesobbed out: "Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez aProvidence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' lessbrung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy,ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How airwe ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd neverlive arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobodygit up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!"

  Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos."Tell me in Spanish," he said. "I cannot understand."

  As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited andincoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, "Too late!Too late!" He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could havesurvived the shock of seeing her husband murdered. "Too late! Too late!"he cried, as he staggered into the house. "She has surely died of thesight."

  "I allow she didn't die, nuther," said Jos; "not ser long ez she hedthet young un to look arter!"

  "Yer air right, Jos!" said Aunt Ri. "I allow yer air right. Tharcouldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet'ssome comfort."

  Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, hesaid, "How far is it?"

  "Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz," said Jos; "'n'the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuzlivin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San JacintoMounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro."

  How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thusfamiliarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, andwho were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death!Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, "Wemust go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?"

  "Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--" began Jos,energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, hecompleted in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were atFelipe's command.

  "Jos! He's got ter take me!" cried Aunt Ri. "I allow I ain't never gwineter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so beez she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone byhisself."

  Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressedhimself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.

  "Yeow tell him, Jos," she said, "I can't never git used ter bein' calledSenory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jestwish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears likeI'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust.I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter theselow-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't standbein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' inMexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thoutsech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easieref he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, eitherun on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest."

  Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to SanJacinto. She laughed.

  "Don't yeow be a mite oneasy," she said. "I bet yeow I'd go clean backter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'nmy hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn'tbegin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up themounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'llbe a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to gethisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd."

  Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silenceenforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for theirthoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have atfirst appeared. They understood each other well enough for practicalpurposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made abond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.

  It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon madethe night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out,Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, "Thet's lucky."

  "Yes," replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she hadspoken, "it is good. It shows to us the way."

  "Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!" thought Aunt Ri.

  Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they werehurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, whenAunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only onethey had seen for many miles, said: "We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donnothe road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev togit up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'ablebusiness keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kindo' people they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum theirtime to git up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives longafore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day'swork. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. Thefust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'emup thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' butthar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hearsech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feedtheirselves tew. They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' disheswashed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys,terrible pious. I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin'in God; I don't allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, butthey don't worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much.Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sechdoin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n'I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these Merrills air reelnice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!--Lawd! I don't believehe's understood a word I've said, naow!" thought Aunt Ri to herself,suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face."'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folksthet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, Iallow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed betweenfolks thet doos!"

  When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up themountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him fromtaking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horseslike those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruelroad. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling andtacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois.Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.

  "I'm gwine whar he goes," she said grimly to herself. "I ain't a gwineter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along."

  Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The roadhad been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was atperilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines tillit reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill.Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteenmiles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, andgrassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or easternslopes. From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, ledsouth, and up to the Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey,at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with thecountry could find the last part of the way without a guide. Finallyit was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in thiscapacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomedto the road. By the help of these the terrible ascent was made withoutdifficulty, though Baba at firs
t snorted, plunged, and resented thehumiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail.

  Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would haveexperienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on theprecipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened,until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pineswere grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the uppercurve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive wastheir size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top,as by myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly storedaway an acorn,--the woodpeckers' granaries.

  "Look at thet, naow!" exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; "an' thar'sfolk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumbto each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketchedwith furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyarMexican I'm er travellin' with."

  "That's so!" replied Sam Merrill. "When we fust got here, I thought I'dha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense mymeanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk theirlingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learnedthe fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have."

  The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as shechatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter!But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more hewould see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warmto her again.

  They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at earlydawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As theircarriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to beseen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn byfour horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitationinto which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro hadby no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each newoccurrence. The news had only just reached the village that Farrar hadbeen set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and theflames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitanhad so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forthagain this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and loweringfaces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of theCapitan's house.

  Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, andcontempt. "Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laideyes on," she said in a low tone to Merrill, "I allow these yere air thewust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit,if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, Iallow."

  "Oh, they're friendly enough," laughed Merrill. "They're all stirredup, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em lookso fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, afirin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin'the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a goodhorse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've gotout in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean,low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead;but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see hishorse, that he didn't know what he did."

  Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe hadleaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan,had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten thatshe was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as ifRamona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, wasconscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but noteven the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now,or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had justheard. The words seemed to choke her as she began. "Young man," shesaid, "I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuzgreat on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thetway; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,--he's jest abaout yeourage, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,--ef I should hear himsay what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck bylightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow Ish'dn't!"

  What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was neverknown, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door,beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternlyrejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As shecrossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, andsaid, "Come, speak to her." He was on his knees by a wretched pallet onthe floor. Was that Ramona,--that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyesglittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the handsof one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; andit was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people hadexhausted all their simple skill for her in vain.

  Aunt Ri burst into tears. "Oh, Lawd!" she said. "Ef I had some 'old man'hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 'tgrowin' not more'n er mile back." And without a second look, or anotherword, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said,speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: "Yeowjest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allowI'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yerhosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it," she cried, leaningout, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. "Stop! Here'tis!" she cried. "I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars alonghyar;" and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining,gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercelyon their way back. "This'll cure her, ef ennything will," she said, asshe entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyesroving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them."She's bad," she said, her lips trembling; "but, 'never say die!' ezallers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n'yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone."

  Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona'snostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of itbetween the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her ownhands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love andlife won. Before night Ramona was asleep.

  Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers,each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramonaslept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how shehad knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In aniche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle justsmouldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on theirpoverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro andRamona during the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona'shold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna'spicture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he werealone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees,and a low-whispered murmur was heard.

  For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. "Oh,Lawd!" she thought, "the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!" Then asudden revulsion seized her. "I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly oneout er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; Iallow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!"And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her sideslipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid itin the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment anda lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.

  XXVI

  THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the lightstreamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and AuntRi were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed atthem.

  "Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleepagin, honey," said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona'se
yelids, and compelling them down. "We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n'we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go tersleep, honey."

  The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way,and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice stroveto speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faintquestion that came,--"Felipe?"

  "Yes, dear! I am here, too," breathed Felipe; "go to sleep. We will notleave you!"

  And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving herlife.

  "Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better," said Aunt Ri, with a sigh,deep-drawn like a groan. "I allow I dread ter see her reely come to.'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!"

  But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gatheringin Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentleconstancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made;this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as werethose of old, who "had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, beingdestitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains,and in dens and caves of the earth."

  When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatificsmile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, "How did you find me,dear Felipe?" It was rather by the motions of her lips than by anysound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make anaudible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again,and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes,she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, "Alessandro." A convulsionpassed over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.

  Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptlyresponded: "Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n'Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n'well, 'n' tote ye out er this--" Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in hervocabulary answered her need at that moment. "I allow ye kin go 'n aweek, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git tertalkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey.We'll look arter everythin'."

  Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lipsframed the words, "With you?"

  "Yes, dear, home with me," said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. "Ihave been searching for you all this time."

  An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. Howoften he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by thesudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less thancontinued anxiety. "I am alone, dear Ramona," he whispered. "There is noone now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been deada year."

  The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. "Dear Felipe!"she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like oneinspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting forRamona. Not only her child to live for, but to "take care of Felipe"!Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection andduty, on the side of life,--the battle was won, and won quickly, too.

  To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked onAunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitiousreverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herbby means of which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had maderepeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must bethat there had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They wouldhardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, shereiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot waterand "old man," which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which,when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt somesignificance in connection with the results of her preparation of theleaves.

  Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence inthe Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold likewater, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything,anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in theatmosphere of that lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. Hehad travelled all over California, with four horses, in search of her.He was only waiting till she was well, to take her to his home in thesouth; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered herhusband, and have him hanged,--yes, hanged! Small doubt about that;or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senorwould see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard thesetales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, forwell he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but thebullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians intheir vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their memories were long.Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him onthat lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himselfknew,--nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitterwhole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward withno hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murdererhimself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge andjury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, andthat, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, andthose were, "Senor, I will explain;" and that even after the first shothad pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he hadstill run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted deprecatingly,and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead.Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that killing anIndian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish inAlessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recallthis, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law whohad appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still moreunpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was anotherthing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked byeverybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing ofit on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutelyinvestigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the onlyclew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was thatthe poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony inthe corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for ahorse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, morethan once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known factof Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tellagainst him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He wasas cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separatein human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense andapprehension, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever,at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of theway. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution and it was wellhe did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, thatFelipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiriesrelative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in thematter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar.And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes ofthe case, and went on to say, "If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's,the wife's, must be false," and "at any rate, her testimony would not beworth a straw with any jury," Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, "Sheof whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can findthat man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if aSan Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such abrute!" and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wisething Farrar had done in making his escape.

  When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed upher spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was youngMerrill. "Fled ther country, hez he?" she said. "Wall, he kin flee ezmany countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeowfolks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but Isay 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef'tain't brung one way,
't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n'don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet'slighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawdarter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve inhangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don'twant to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want tosee no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyarFeeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit,quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched him; so it's better all raoundhe's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! ThetInjun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' longarter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow.He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but amite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, EastTennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fencebetween 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o'ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' thenthe women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they gotfightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' theyfit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' hepicked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hedhim up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they everdid, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free;'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared likehe never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he,'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sedhe, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' thecountry's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n'I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, buthe's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep withhim ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them'sther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, butI didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy,'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuzbigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,--I heern him,--'Wal,'sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'llnever git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.'Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz.'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said't wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with thismiser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged ershot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery."

  Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words.They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; astratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The characterof the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of suchstrata,--the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain bysuccessions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geologicaldeposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened andruffianly nature often remains--its forms not yet quite fossilized--arealm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, whichthe boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some greatcatastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again intothe light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in hischildhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he isthrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling andspeech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was muchin this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Merrill. He was notmany years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest NewEngland Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, asin a whirlpool; but he was New Englander yet at heart.

  "That's so, Aunt Ri!" he exclaimed. "That's so! I don't s'pose a manthat's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor inthe next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin'business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way youcan fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin'had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!"

  A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. "I hain't nopatience left with yer," she said, "er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ezef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun,he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think efhe'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral,same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n'the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody tersee?"

  "Left his own horse, so he did!" retorted Merrill. "A poor, miserable,knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horsewas worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that."

  "Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin'," persisted AuntRi. "I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, hewa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used terhoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet lefthis name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n'fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allowme 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur Iallow we air bound to querril ef we dew;" and nothing that Merrill saidcould draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death.But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speecheloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. Thelast vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, inthe presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. "I'll never hear aword said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day," she said. "The way thepore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony,beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most.'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, tillFeeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha'taken care on her till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez tookcare on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thingleft. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take alesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm donetalkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur allthet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobodyb'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thetway tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hullworld could see what I've seen! Thet's all!"

  It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed.Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such aprotector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe'sand Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yetconscious of a loss,--of a void. The gulf between them and the rest ofthe world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, theirhopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been astheir sister,--one of them; as such, she would have had share in alltheir life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardshipand deprivation and she was being borne away from it, like one rescued,not so much from death, as from a life worse than death.

  The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. Sheembraced again and again the young mother who had for so many dayssuckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babethat Ramona's should not suffer. "Sister, you have given me my child,"she cried; "I can never thank you; I will pray for you all my life."

  She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like alittle child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater thanhers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voicespoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which hadcharacterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her sereneand sunny then,--serene under trials, sunny in her routine of littleduties,--had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm,if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did notdesert her even now.

  Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as n
ear to veneration as her dry,humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. "I allow I donno butI sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew," she said, "ef I wuz ter live'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'Tbeats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum wouldsay she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kinsee, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uvprayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thetkeeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'nit's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor aginInjuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, thesedays. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!"

  The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to amother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than gohome with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for atreason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder atit. "Dear girl," he thought; "it is the nearest she has ever come toknowing what a mother's love is like!" And he lingered in San Bernardinoweek after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enoughto bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for stayingwas his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheeringcompanionship.

  Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife.She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadfulmorning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of herfavorite pattern, the "hit-er-miss" pattern, as she called it; no setstripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of theindiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of asingle color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmoniousblending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject,too, of not unphilosophical reflection.

  "Wall," she said, "it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's'hit' oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther wayther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, whenthey air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine terbe with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss'pattren we air all on us livin' on 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckonhow 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'dthink; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought't wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n'tnever nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jestther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come,'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 'tdone. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thetlesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest therwedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it'swhat they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuztold ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn foolgits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll take ther'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along."

  When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independentarms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding thetime when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind wasburdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished togive, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agenthimself at home.

  "I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet," shesaid; "I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered.We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother.He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off."

  Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did notcome to see him; he had expected to hear from her.

  "Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef shewuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use intalkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' tono jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so."

  "Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me," said the Agent. "I wasgoing to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bringthe case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed."

  "Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns,I notice," broke in Aunt Ri; "hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' themarshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeourdoin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell--themwuz thar words--thet sold whiskey ter Injuns."

  "That's so!" said the Agent. "So I am; I am determined to break up thisvile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to doanything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin anda shame."

  "Thet's so, I allow ter yeow," said Aunt Ri. "Thar ain't any gainsayin'thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin'whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet."

  "That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri," he said. "Ihave no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have."

  "What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?" broke in Aunt Ri.

  The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logicalmethod of questioning was inconvenient.

  "I only mean that they are under my charge," he said. "I don't mean thatthey belong to me in any way."

  "Wall, I allow not," retorted Aunt Ri, "enny more 'n I dew. They airairnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I'vebeen 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've hadmy eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thetthey call the Agency doctor,--what's he got ter do?"

  "To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick," repliedthe Agent, promptly.

  "Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's whyAlessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,--thet's why he put his namedown 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuzhigh-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv outer fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore;'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n'the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N'they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she diedafore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all therest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spellstill arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. Iwouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow.Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yerknowed it, or ye'd hev made him go."

  "No, Aunt Ri," said the Agent; "I could not have done that; he is onlyrequired to doctor such Indians as come here."

  "I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all," said AuntRi; "'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. Iexpect he gits well paid?" and she paused for an answer. None came. TheAgent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salarythe Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazardprescriptions to Indians he never saw.

  After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: "Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, Iallow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur theseInjuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power togiv' 'em ennything,--food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em."

  "I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in timesof special suffering;" replied the Agent, "a very little; and theDepartment has appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; notenough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are inthe main self-supporting."

  "Thet's jest it," persisted Aunt Ri. "Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n'thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means terhev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yercan't put fol
ks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter saykillin' 'em,--ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin'whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say--" Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish toseem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentencevery differently from her first impulse,--"I'm free ter say I shouldn'tlike ter stan' in yer shoes."

  "You may very well say that, Aunt Ri," laughed the Agent, complacently."It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the leastsatisfactory."

  "Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin'," rejoined theindefatigable Aunt Ri; "but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef sobe's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'." And she lookedhonestly puzzled.

  "Look there, Aunt Ri!" said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile ofbooks and papers. "All those to be gone through with, and a report to bemade out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil Ibuy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and forless pay."

  "I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then," retorted Aunt Ri,good-naturedly satirical, "ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!" And shetook her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature andfunction of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.

  Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in adream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito,gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemedgliding; Felipe by her side,--the dear Felipe,--his eyes wearing thesame bright and loving look as of old,--what strange thing was it whichhad happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little onein her arms,--she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, buther nerves were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends mercifulanaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpnessof the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be longbefore Ramona would fully realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worstanguish was yet to come.

  Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was witha marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid,always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for eachthoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that heknew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towardshim. "Grateful to me!" he thought. "To me, who might have spared her allthis woe if I had been strong!"

  Never would Felipe forgive himself,--no, not to the day of his death.His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what apitiful thing was that to render!

  As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him thatshe had shed tears. At last he said to her: "Dearest Ramona, do not fearto weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is betterfor you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing towounds."

  "I do not think so, Felipe," replied Ramona. "Tears are only selfish andweak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible alwaysto keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think alsothat I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. FatherSalvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter howmuch we might be suffering."

  "That is more than human power can do!" said Felipe.

  "I think not," replied Ramona. "If it were, Father Salvierderra wouldnot have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smilehis face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many yearsbefore he died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep,from the great wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we neversaw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone,Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these yearsin the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thoughtthat the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughtsinto my mind. I hope I can tell them to my child when she is old enough.She will understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro'ssoul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which Ispeak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air andthe sky and the sun, and all trees know them."

  When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. Hehimself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spokeit as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. Therewere to be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely,sorrowing, sunny sister of his.

  When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watchfor days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Canheading the group; only two absent,--Margarita and Luigo. They had beenmarried some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, whereLuigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd.

  On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting.Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest thehome-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little ofwhat their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemedthat she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it wouldbe terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painfulassociations. "And the Senora gone, too," said one of the outdoor hands,as they were talking it over; "it's not the same place at all that itwas when the Senora was here."

  "Humph!" muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing thanever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. "Humph! that'sall you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you!We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that,my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and theSenorita than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day.They can have theirs now."

  When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona--pale, but with herown old smile on her face--coming towards them with her babe in herarms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in thegroup.

  Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towardsher, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, "I am sure you willlove my baby, Marda!"

  "Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!" they cried; and closedup their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing herfrom one to another.

  Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, "Give herto me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;" and she movedtoward the inner door.

  "This way, dear; this way," cried Felipe. "It is Father Salvierderra'sroom I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for thebaby!"

  "Thanks, kind Felipe!" cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than herwords. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded inreturning,--the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It wouldbe long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would neverenter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!

  Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdomhold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the faceof this beautiful woman,--so much more beautiful now than she had beenbefore her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thoughther changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell whichwould for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover'sthoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. Therewas a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt bythe dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted.It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her ownhumorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in replyto a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effectthat it was "a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senoritayears ago,--what if he were to do it yet?" she said, also under herbreath. "It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself!Not but that it would be a great thing if it could be!"

  And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so oftenhad come about,--the presence of a little child in her house, on theveranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence.But how differently had it come! Not Fel
ipe's child, as she proudlyhad pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banishedRamona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of thehouse,--Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own,he could not have felt for it a greater love. From the first, the littlething had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours inhis arms, one little hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips,and kissed again and again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself inFelipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish thefondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Monthby month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona'slife were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constantfellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandrodid not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: it meant anunchanged relation.

  One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,--the concealed treasure. Asense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking ofit. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that hedelayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had heldhis mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, beforeRamona interrupted him. "Oh, yes!" she said. "I knew about those things;your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wishsometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all givento the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done withthem if I married against your mother's wishes."

  It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: "Dear Ramona,they were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died;and I suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told meabout them just as she was dying."

  "But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?" asked Ramona,simply.

  "Why?" cried Felipe. "Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only.I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof thatyou were dead and had left no children."

  Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. "You have not readthe Senora Ortegna's letter?" she said.

  "Yes, I have," he replied, "every word of it."

  "But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married againstthe Senora Moreno's will."

  Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? "No, dear," he said, "that was notthe word. It was, if you married unworthily."

  Ramona reflected. "I never recollected the words," she said. "I wastoo frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marryunworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me totake them for my child?"

  "Perfectly," said Felipe.

  "Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?"

  "I am sure of it, dear."

  "I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother didnot think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That waswhy she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took onething,--a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it;but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back ahalf-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grievedsorely for it."

  The next day Ramona said to Felipe: "Dear Felipe, I have thought it allover about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter tohave them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, tosay that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,--to FatherSalvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would ratherhave them go."

  "Yes, dear," said Felipe; "and then we will put them in some saferplace. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no onehas stolen them all these years!"

  And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a writtenbequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thingwe call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that wecan have much to do with its shaping.

  *****

  Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,--smoothly to the eye. Nothingcould be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days,with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all.Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There wasnot an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth,from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally athome and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running,frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangelydrifted into this happy shelter,--the little Ramona. As unconscious ofaught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it washer delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have beenfrom the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, setfree from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.

  Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now anadded radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, whenshe felt that she for the first time waked to the realization of herbereavement; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out,mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestledwith this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastlyto the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty ofjoyfulness. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, tillshe more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the nightin prayer, as it had been his wont to do.

  No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them;and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a newvictory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the firstdishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sightedlover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into theworld where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet herevery act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and forhim, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, allFelipe's unrest could not make him unhappy.

  There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearningdesire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of lifein California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims,standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Theirboasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement anddevelopment,--all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion formoney and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour,thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage andgambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Lifeunder the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both hishereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted.He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanishtongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn forMexico,--for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like anexile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree,and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of thischange, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willingto go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she hadknown nothing but sufferings.

  At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried:"Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did notthink that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautifuldream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico."

  And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, andwondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughterthe burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond ofrace.

  The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than hecould have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some richAmerican proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land inthe valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he receivedfor it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for therealization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hourthat this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a newexpression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. Anuntried future beckoned,--a fu
ture which she would embrace and conquerfor her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for thefirst time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a newlove? She could not always be blind to his devotion and when she sawit, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and waitlong, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long withouthope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! Butpatience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day whenFelipe first thought to himself, "She will yet be mine," it grew harder,and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his love in words.Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and comfort to him,grew at times intolerable; and again and again her gentle spiritwas deeply disquieted with the fear that she had displeased him, sostrangely did he conduct himself.

  He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her hispassion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But therecame a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.

  It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been onboard the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed backto shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded inthe end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed tofloat up around her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazedat her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, sheput her hand in his, and said, as she had said hundreds of times before,"Dear Felipe, how good you are!" he clasped her hands wildly, and cried,"Ramona, my love! Oh, can you not love me?"

  The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramonagazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then sheknew all. "Felipe! My brother!" she cried, and stretched out her handsas if in warning.

  "No! I am not your brother!" he cried. "I will not be your brother! Iwould rather die!"

  "Felipe!" cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him tohimself. It was a voice of terror and of pain.

  "Forgive me, my sweet one!" he exclaimed. "I will never say it again.But I have loved you so long--so long!"

  Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on theshining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feetgently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this suprememoment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his wholepast life in a new light. Remorse smote her. "Dear Felipe," she said,clasping her hands, "I have been very selfish. I did not know--"

  "Of course you did not, love," said Felipe. "How could you? But I havenever loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn tolove me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I havespoken; I cannot hide it any more."

  Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. "I have alwaysloved you," she said. "I love no other living man; but, Felipe,"--hervoice sank to a solemn whisper,--"do you not know, Felipe, that part ofme is dead,--dead? can never live again? You could not want me for yourwife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!"

  Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. "Youwould not say that if you did not think you could be my wife," he cried."Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourselfdead or alive!"

  Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did notknow, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. Thisgentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if shewould do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her onlythe broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light ofpassion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,--ah, how unlike was sheto that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, "Takeme with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!"

  Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, withinfallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipeloved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had savedher, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these wordshaving been spoken? "I will be your wife, dear Felipe," she said,speaking solemnly, slowly, "if you are sure it will make you happy, andif you think it is right."

  "Right!" ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon."Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you willforget you ever said that part of you was dead!"

  A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; itmight have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.

  General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city ofMexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day aftertheir arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Mardaand Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them.The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatlyenhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful youngSenora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilledwith pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she wasdistinguished in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life.Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stoodlike sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to eachother, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voicesaying, "Majella!" This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart hadkept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,--loyal, loving,serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.

  Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were allbeautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, themost beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the onewho bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to theSenor,--Ramona,--Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian.

 

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