XXVI

THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light

streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt

Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at

them.

“Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep

agin, honey,” said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's

eyelids, 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 ter

sleep, honey.”

The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way,

and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove

to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint

question that came,--“Felipe?”

“Yes, dear! I am here, too,” breathed Felipe; “go to sleep. We will not

leave you!”

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

life.

“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 gathering

in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle

constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made;

this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were

those of old, who “had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being

destitute, 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 beatific

smile 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 any

sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an

audible 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 convulsion

passed over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.

Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly

responded: “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 her

vocabulary answered her need at that moment. “I allow ye kin go 'n a

week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter

talkin', 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 lips

framed the words, “With you?”

“Yes, dear, home with me,” said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. “I

have been searching for you all this time.”

An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How

often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the

sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than

continued anxiety. “I am alone, dear Ramona,” he whispered. “There is no

one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead

a year.”

The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. “Dear Felipe!”

she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one

inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for

Ramona. 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 and

duty, 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 on

Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious

reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb

by means of which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made

repeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be

that there had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would

hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she

reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water

and “old man,” which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which,

when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some

significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the

leaves.

Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in

the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like

water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything,

anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the

atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He

had 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 the

south; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her

husband, and have him hanged,--yes, hanged! Small doubt about that;

or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor

would see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these

tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for

well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but the

bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians in

their 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 on

that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himself

knew,--nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitter

whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with

no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer

himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and

jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, and

that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, and

those were, “Senor, I will explain;” and that even after the first shot

had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he had

still 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 an

Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish in

Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall

this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who

had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more

unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another

thing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by

everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of

it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely

investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only

clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that

the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in

the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a

horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more

than once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact

of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell

against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was

as cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate

in human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and

apprehension, 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 the

way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well

he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that

Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries

relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the

matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar.

And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of

the 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 be

worth a straw with any jury,” Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, “She

of whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find

that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a

San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a

brute!” and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise

thing Farrar had done in making his escape.

When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up

her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young

Merrill. “Fled ther country, hez he?” she said. “Wall, he kin flee ez

many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow

folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I

say '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's

lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd

arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in

hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't

want to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to

see no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar

Feeleepy, 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 raound

he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet

Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long

arter; 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 a

mite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East

Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence

between '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' then

the women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they got

fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they

fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he

picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed

him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever

did, 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 like

he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he,

'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sed

he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the

country'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, but

he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with

him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's

ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but

I 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 wuz

bigger 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'll

never 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 this

miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er

shot, 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; a

stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character

of the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such

strata,--the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by

successions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological

deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened and

ruffianly nature often remains--its forms not yet quite fossilized--a

realm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, which

the boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great

catastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into

the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his

childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is

thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and

speech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was much

in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Merrill. He was not

many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest New

England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as

in 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 man

that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in

the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin'

business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you

can 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 no

patience left with yer,” she said, “er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez

ef 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 ef

he'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 ter

see?”

“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 horse

was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that.”

“Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',” persisted Aunt

Ri. “I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he

wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter

hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left

his 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 allow

me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I

allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;” and nothing that Merrill said

could 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 speech

eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The

last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in

the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. “I'll never hear a

word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,” she said. “The way the

pore 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, till

Feeleepy '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 took

care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing

left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take a

lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done

talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all

thet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody

b'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet

way tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull

world 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 a

protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's

and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet

conscious of a loss,--of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of

the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their

hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as

their sister,--one of them; as such, she would have had share in all

their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship

and 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. She

embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days

suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe

that 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 a

little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than

hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice

spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had

characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene

and sunny then,--serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little

duties,--had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm,

if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did not

desert her even now.

Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry,

humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. “I allow I donno but

I 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. 'T

beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would

say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin

see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv

prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet

keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n

it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin

Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these

days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!”

The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a

mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go

home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a

treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at

it. “Dear girl,” he thought; “it is the nearest she has ever come to

knowing what a mother's love is like!” And he lingered in San Bernardino

week after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough

to bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying

was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering

companionship.

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 dreadful

morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her

favorite pattern, the “hit-er-miss” pattern, as she called it; no set

stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the

indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a

single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious

blending 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 way

ther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when

they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter

be 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 reckon

how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd

think; 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't

never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest

ther 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 't

done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thet

lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest ther

wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it's

what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz

told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn fool

gits 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 independent

arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the

time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was

burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to

give, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent

himself at home.

“I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,” she

said; “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 not

come to see him; he had expected to hear from her.

“Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she

wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in

talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to

no 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 was

going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring

the 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' the

marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour

doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell--them

wuz thar words--thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.”

“That's so!” said the Agent. “So I am; I am determined to break up this

vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do

anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and

a 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. “I

have 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 logical

method of questioning was inconvenient.

“I only mean that they are under my charge,” he said. “I don't mean that

they belong to me in any way.”

“Wall, I allow not,” retorted Aunt Ri, “enny more 'n I dew. They air

airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've

been 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had

my eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet

they call the Agency doctor,--what's he got ter do?”

“To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,” replied

the Agent, promptly.

“Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why

Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,--thet's why he put his name

down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz

high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out

er 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 died

afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the

rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells

till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I

wouldn'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 yer

knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go.”

“No, Aunt Ri,” said the Agent; “I could not have done that; he is only

required to doctor such Indians as come here.”

“I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,” said Aunt

Ri; “'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I

expect he gits well paid?” and she paused for an answer. None came. The

Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary

the Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard

prescriptions to Indians he never saw.

After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: “Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I

allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these

Injuns. 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 to

giv' 'em ennything,--food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.”

“I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times

of special suffering;” replied the Agent, “a very little; and the

Department has appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not

enough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are in

the 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 ter

hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer

can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say

killin' '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 to

seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence

very differently from her first impulse,--“I'm free ter say I shouldn't

like 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 least

satisfactory.”

“Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',” rejoined the

indefatigable Aunt Ri; “but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so

be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.” And she looked

honestly puzzled.

“Look there, Aunt Ri!” said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of

books and papers. “All those to be gone through with, and a report to be

made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I

buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for

less pay.”

“I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,” retorted Aunt Ri,

good-naturedly satirical, “ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!” And she

took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and

function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.

Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a

dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito,

gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed

gliding; Felipe by her side,--the dear Felipe,--his eyes wearing the

same bright and loving look as of old,--what strange thing was it which

had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one

in her arms,--she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but

her nerves were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful

anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness

of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be long

before Ramona would fully realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst

anguish was yet to come.

Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with

a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid,

always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each

thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he

knew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards

him. “Grateful to me!” he thought. “To me, who might have spared her all

this 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 a

pitiful thing was that to render!

As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that

she had shed tears. At last he said to her: “Dearest Ramona, do not fear

to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better

for you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to

wounds.”

“I do not think so, Felipe,” replied Ramona. “Tears are only selfish and

weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always

to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also

that I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father

Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how

much we might be suffering.”

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

“I think not,” replied Ramona. “If it were, Father Salvierderra would

not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile

his face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years

before 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 never

saw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone,

Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years

in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought

that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts

into 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's

soul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I

speak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and

the sky and the sun, and all trees know them.”

When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He

himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke

it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There

were 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 watch

for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can

heading the group; only two absent,--Margarita and Luigo. They had been

married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where

Luigo, 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 the

home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of

what their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed

that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would

be terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painful

associations. “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 it

was when the Senora was here.”

“Humph!” muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than

ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. “Humph! that's

all 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 the

Senorita 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 her

own old smile on her face--coming towards them with her babe in her

arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in the

group.

Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards

her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, “I am sure you will

love my baby, Marda!”

“Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!” they cried; and closed

up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her

from one to another.

Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, “Give her

to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;” and she moved

toward the inner door.

“This way, dear; this way,” cried Felipe. “It is Father Salvierderra's

room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the

baby!”

“Thanks, kind Felipe!” cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her

words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in

returning,--the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It would

be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would never

enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!

Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom

hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face

of this beautiful woman,--so much more beautiful now than she had been

before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought

her changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which

would for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's

thoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There

was a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by

the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted.

It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own

humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply

to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect

that it was “a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita

years ago,--what if he were to do it yet?” she said, also under her

breath. “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 often

had come about,--the presence of a little child in her house, on the

veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence.

But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly

had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished

Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the

house,--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 little

thing had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in

his 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 in

Felipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the

fondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month

by month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's

life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant

fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandro

did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: it meant an

unchanged relation.

One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,--the concealed treasure. A

sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of

it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he

delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held

his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before

Ramona interrupted him. “Oh, yes!” she said. “I knew about those things;

your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish

sometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given

to the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with

them 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 me

about 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 that

you were dead and had left no children.”

Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. “You have not read

the 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 against

the Senora Moreno's will.”

Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? “No, dear,” he said, “that was not

the word. It was, if you married unworthily.”

Ramona reflected. “I never recollected the words,” she said. “I was

too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry

unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to

take 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 did

not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was

why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one

thing,--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 a

half-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved

sorely for it.”

The next day Ramona said to Felipe: “Dear Felipe, I have thought it all

over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to

have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to

say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,--to Father

Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would rather

have them go.”

“Yes, dear,” said Felipe; “and then we will put them in some safer

place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one

has stolen them all these years!”

And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written

bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing

we call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we

can have much to do with its shaping.

*****

Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,--smoothly to the eye. Nothing

could 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 was

not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth,

from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at

home and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running,

frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely

drifted into this happy shelter,--the little Ramona. As unconscious of

aught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was

her delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been

from the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set

free from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.

Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an

added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when

she felt that she for the first time waked to the realization of her

bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out,

mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled

with this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly

to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of

joyfulness. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till

she more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the night

in 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 new

victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first

dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted

lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the

world where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her

every act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for

him, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, all

Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy.

There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning

desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life

in California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims,

standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their

boasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and

development,--all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for

money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour,

thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and

gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life

under the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his

hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted.

He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish

tongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for

Mexico,--for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an

exile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree,

and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this

change, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing

to go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had

known 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 not

think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful

dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico.”

And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and

wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter

the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of

race.

The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he

could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich

American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in

the valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received

for it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the

realization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour

that this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new

expression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An

untried future beckoned,--a future which she would embrace and conquer

for her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the

first time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new

love? She could not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw

it, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait

long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without

hope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But

patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day when

Felipe 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 spirit

was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had displeased him, so

strangely did he conduct himself.

He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his

passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there

came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.

It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on

board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back

to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in

the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to

float up around her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed

at her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she

put 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. Ramona

gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she

knew all. “Felipe! My brother!” she cried, and stretched out her hands

as if in warning.

“No! I am not your brother!” he cried. “I will not be your brother! I

would rather die!”

“Felipe!” cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to

himself. 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 the

shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet

gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme

moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole

past 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 have

never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to

love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have

spoken; I cannot hide it any more.”

Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. “I have always

loved you,” she said. “I love no other living man; but, Felipe,”--her

voice sank to a solemn whisper,--“do you not know, Felipe, that part of

me is dead,--dead? can never live again? You could not want me for your

wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!”

Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. “You

would 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 yourself

dead or alive!”

Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not

know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This

gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she

would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only

the broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of

passion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,--ah, how unlike was she

to that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, “Take

me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!”

Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with

infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe

loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved

her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words

having been spoken? “I will be your wife, dear Felipe,” she said,

speaking solemnly, slowly, “if you are sure it will make you happy, and

if 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 will

forget you ever said that part of you was dead!”

A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it

might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.

General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of

Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after

their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda

and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them.

The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly

enhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young

Senora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled

with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was

distinguished in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life.

Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood

like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each

other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice

saying, “Majella!” This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart had

kept 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 all

beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the

most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one

who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the

Senor,--Ramona,--Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian.