WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the evening with Felipe without to the topic uppermost in her mind. But Felipe was still nervous and . She would not spoil his night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover, she was not clear in her own mind what she wished to have done about Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent away to the , which was the only thing the Senora could think of as yet, there would be no reason for discharging Alessandro. And with him the Senora was by no means ready to part, though in her first anger she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As she pursued her reflections, the whole situation cleared itself in her mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the plottings and plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula no allowance for a human element which he cannot control.
Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her sister's written instructions had provided for the possibility of just such a . Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box, and with age, and set it on the bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. It was many years since the Senora had opened this box. No one but herself knew of its existence. There had been many times in the history of the Moreno house when the price of the contents of that box would have loss and misfortune; but the Senora no more thought of the treasure than if it had been guarded by angels with swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in the dim light of the one candle,—, emeralds, pearls, and yellow diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. “Fine dowry, truly, for a creature like this!” she said. “Well I knew in the beginning no good would come of it; base , base born, she has but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be grateful that my own son was too pure to be her !” “To be given to my adopted daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,”—so the instructions ran,—“if she and with your approval. Should such a misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she should prove unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of value, shall be the property of the Church.”
“No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves unworthy,” thought the Senora, bitterly; “but the Church is the place for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of disgrace. I my sister said that Angus had at first intended to give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it with its Indian mother!” and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked, her long skirt swept it to and fro. She stooped, picked it up, read it again, with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of her sister's love for the little child; no relenting. “Unworthy!” Yes, that was a mild word to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once out of the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would lead their lives together, and Felipe would some day. Was there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices, and Ramona would be forgotten.
The Senora did not know how late it was. “I will tell her to-night,” she said. “I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!”
It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her to go to the kitchen, get a of milk and some bread, and take them to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she opened the door and in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle high up; no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It was open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. “She has run off with Alessandro,” she thought, “What horrible disgrace.” motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other side of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left hand was under her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the base of the statue. She was sound asleep. Her face was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was full of significance. Even helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken refuge in . This thought had been distinct in the girl's mind when she found herself, spite of all her and terror, growing sleepy. “She won't dare to hurt me at the 's feet,” she had said; “and the window is open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will watch.” And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep.
It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from being roused to hear her . The Senora stood for some moments looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful suspicions, she what she had never before thought of, that Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe, had had close access to Ramona's window. “Shameful creature!” she repeated to herself. “And she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!” and she turned away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a table. Then, with a sudden and still more curious of justness in her , she returned, and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over Ramona, covering her carefully from head to foot. Then she went out and again locked the door.
Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. “Thank God, the poor child is asleep!” he said; “and my poor dear mother feared to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!” And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy sleep, when his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of the sunrise . Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready; and no sooner did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her voice, than he struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour, prowling, listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her and her fears,—even Margarita delayed not to unite; and Felipe, too, sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded and as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of being all full of sorrow, confusion, or . But there was no one of them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro most of all.
“The saints be praised,” said Alessandro. “There is my wood-dove's voice. She can sing!” And, “Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I am glad he loves me,” said Ramona.
“To hear those two voices.” said the Senora; “would one suppose they could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think.”
As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.
Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread and milk standing on the table, felt much . Only the Senora's own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out; and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants to gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very hungry. Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down to wait. For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much try. Ramona had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule. She felt little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going away presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the room. This composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it had done before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed to her like nothing less than , and it changed the whole tone and manner of her address.
Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room, she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, “What have you to say for yourself?”
Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona in the same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted.
“Senora,” she said slowly, “I tried to tell you last night, but you would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure you will be a great deal happier when I am away;” and Ramona looked wistfully, with no shade of , into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. “You have been very good to do so much for a girl you did not love. Thank you for the bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away with Alessandro to-day. I do not know what he will wish. We had only just that minute spoken of being married, when you found us last night.”
The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say these words. She was dumb with . Instantaneously, on the first sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed, followed a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much scorn, but a bitterer anger. “Marry! Marry that Indian!” she cried, as soon as she found voice. “You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I will never permit it.”
Ramona looked anxiously at her. “I have never disobeyed you, Senora,” she said, “but this is different from all other things; you are not my mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro.”
The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.
“No,” she said icily, “I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to speak again of marrying this Indian.”
The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise and cost, of what stuff this girl was made,—this girl, who had for fourteen years lived by her side, , gentle, sunny, and uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona said, in a louder, firmer voice: “Senora Moreno, you may forbid me as much as you please. The whole world cannot keep me from marrying Alessandro. I love him. I have promised, and I shall keep my word.” And with her young arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown back, Ramona flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud . It was the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from her like a garment thrown off.
“Pshaw!” said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless , “you talk like a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow, if I choose?”
“No, you cannot!” replied Ramona.
“Who, then, is to hinder me.” said the Senora, .
“Alessandro!” answered Ramona, proudly.
“Alessandro!” the Senora . “Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!”
The Senora's tone but roused Ramona more. “You would never dare!” she cried; “Felipe would not permit it!” A most unwise retort for Ramona.
“Felipe!” cried the Senora, in a voice. “How dare you pronounce his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the truth.”
“You are mistaken, Senora,” answered Ramona, more gently. “Felipe is Alessandro's friend, and—mine,” she added, after a second's pause.
“So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of Moreno!” cried the Senora. “We will see! we will see! Follow me, Senorita Ramona!” And throwing open the door, t............