Ramona

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  III

  JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora'sfamily who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona.Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than theSenora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present.For one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty ofthe Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred thatflashed with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; theshepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry,all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. TheSenora loved her not; never had loved her, never could love her; andyet she had stood in the place of mother to the girl ever since herchildhood, and never once during the whole sixteen years of her life hadshown her any unkindness in act. She had promised to be a mother to her;and with all the inalienable stanchness of her nature she fulfilled theletter of her promise. More than the bond lay in the bond; but that wasnot the Senora's fault.

  The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora'sacquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know--and no oneever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno--who Ramona's parentswere, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name notbeing Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tendedand attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men andwomen here and there in the country could have told the strange storyof Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and muchhad happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew shewas in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs ofthe generation just going out were not the business of the young peoplecoming in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; whatwas the use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one tobe forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summerevening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and allyoung men and maidens thrilled who heard it.

  It was an elder sister of the Senora's,--a sister old enough to be wooedand won while the Senora was yet at play,--who had been promised inmarriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a beautifulwoman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her standing inthe Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like a manbereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made forRamona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterestaccusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angusshe did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was onlyafter his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promiseto become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey,and Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest lineof ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs,carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, camein his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; andAngus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfullywell-mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcome in all the besthouses, wherever his ships went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.

  The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hourher lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals toeach other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north.It was remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with theSenorita, that she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her faceaway, long before her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the"San Jose" said that Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward,till nightfall shut from his sight even the horizon line at which theMonterey ship had long before disappeared from view.

  This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honorwas pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that hewould bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her,treasures of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Throughthe long weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at thewaves, and letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins,velvets, laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. Whenhe could not longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he wouldpace the deck, swifter and swifter, till his steps were like thoseof one flying in fear; at such times the men heard him muttering andwhispering to himself, "Ramona! Ramona!" Mad with love from the firstto the last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if hehad ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reasonwould have fled forever at that moment, and he would have killed eitherher or himself, as men thus mad have been known to do. But that hournever came. When, eight months later, the "San Jose" sailed into theSanta Barbara harbor, and Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, thesecond man he met, no friend of his, looking him maliciously inthe face, said. "So, ho! You're just too late for the wedding! Yoursweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to afine young officer of the Monterey Presidio!"

  Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on theground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house,and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from thehands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ranbareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stoppedby the guard, who knew him.

  "Is it true?" gasped Angus.

  "Yes, Senor," replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shookunder him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared hewould strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst intoa maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street,singing and laughing.

  The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he wasseen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower andlower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara wasAngus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.

  "See what the Senorita escaped!" said the thoughtless. "She was quiteright not to have married such a drunken wretch."

  In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all hepossessed,--ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds squanderedin drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride. He did notseek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it, and soonreturned with her husband to Monterey.

  Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from LosAngeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission,and was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still moresurprising news that he had married a squaw,--a squaw with severalIndian children,--had been legally married by the priest in the SanGabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless RamonaGonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after hermarriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How hehad gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stoodbefore her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawinghimself up to the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at hersternly, with eyes blue like steel, he said: "Senora Ortegna, you oncedid me a great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He hasdenied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and theLord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at yourhands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as achild of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?"

  The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lordhad indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Herchildlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of them.Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the child. Heplaced it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed.

  "I do not know if I will be permitted," she said falteringly; "myhusband--"

  "Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him," replied Angus.

  The Senora's face brightened. "If that be so, I hope it can be as youwish," she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and lookingdown upon the infant, she said inquiringly, "But the chil
d's mother?"

  Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentleand still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to thefull how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave ofhis hand, which spoke volumes, he said: "That is nothing. She has otherchildren, of her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. Iwish her to be yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church."

  With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight inher arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards theinfant. At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. "Oh,no! not to the Church! I will love it as my own," she said.

  Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred intheir graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful,so dear. "I should hardly have known you, Senora!" burst from himinvoluntarily.

  She smiled piteously, with no resentment. "That is not strange. I hardlyknow myself," she whispered. "Life has dealt very hardly with me.I should not have known you either--Angus." She pronounced his namehesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables,so long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in hishands, and sobbed out: "O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here,not wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are yousure you wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not."

  "Never, so long as I live, Angus," replied Senora Ortegna. "Already Ifeel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence inher presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?"

  Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. "Before I had thoughtof bringing her to you," he stammered, "at first I had only the thoughtof giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by"--the wordsrefused to leave his lips--"the name--Can you not guess, Senora, whatname she bears?"

  The Senora knew. "My own?" she said.

  Angus bowed his head. "The only woman's name that my lips ever spokewith love," he said, reassured, "was the name my daughter should bear."

  "It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell betweenthem. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by asimultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his armswith a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed thehands which lovingly held his sleeping child.

  "God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more," he cried,and was gone.

  In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only tosay in a low tone, "There is no need to be alarmed if the child does notwake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her.It will not harm her."

  One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the twolovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again,forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between them had beenbridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heartof the man it was the old passionate adoring love reawakening;a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with lineamentsunchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no buried love tocome to such resurrection in her heart, for she had never loved AngusPhail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, heartbroken, she woke at thatmoment to the realization of what manner of love it had been which shehad thrown away in her youth; her whole being yearned for it now, andAngus was avenged.

  When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, intohis wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met hiseyes,--his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay,smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant.

  "What in the devil's name," he began; then recollecting, he muttered:"Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of yourfirst child!" and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by,giving the cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed.

  The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long sincepassed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. Butit was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and fromthat day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartmentswhere there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sightof her baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency.

  Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealedfrom her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna'scharacter was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shamefuldissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country.But from the wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable ofcomplaint. She was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, Butnow she saw a reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It wasplain to her that she had not many years to live; and what then wouldbecome of the child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was onlytoo certain what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity thelonely woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainlyendeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own death hadnot occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust.

  Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indianmessenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. Hebrought her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the daybefore his death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions aquarter of a century old. They were the jewels which Angus had boughtfor his bride. These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in thelowest depths of his degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained himfrom parting with them. The letter contained only these words: "I sendyou all I have to leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself thisyear. I wished to kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying.Farewell."

  After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested nottill she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and hadput the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her asolemn promise that at her own death she would adopt the littleRamona. This promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for FatherSalvierderra's influence, she had not given it. She did not wish anydealings with such alien and mongrel blood, "If the child were pureIndian, I would like it better," she said. "I like not these crosses. Itis the worst, and not the best of each, that remains."

  But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knewthat her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona'sfuture was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's lifethe child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openlyand defiantly infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relationsin his wife's presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of herhelpless invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzagablood to endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoketo her husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, tosee her die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, anddamasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from fallinginto the hands of the base creature that she knew only too well wouldstand in her place as soon as the funeral services had been said overher dead body.

  Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Morenoconveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, tobe sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnaslavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and neverceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in theirlonely wretchedness.

  One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewellto her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the littlefour-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the nextmorning set sail for home.

  When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of allkinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off,post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demandingtheir return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda ofinstructions to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her intrust for Ramona; also a letter from Father Salvierderra,
upon readingwhich he sank into a fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, andgave his infamous associates considerable alarm, lest they had losttheir comrade. But he soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, andsettled back into his old gait on the same old high-road to the devil.Father Salvierderra could alarm him, but not save him.

  And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno nevertold the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. Itwas a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in themnothing but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last.

  How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked inher own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as wasever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet alittle child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, "Senora, whydid my mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?"

  Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: "Your mother had nothingwhatever to do with it. It was your father."

  "Was my mother dead?" continued the child.

  Too late the Senora saw her mistake. "I do not know," she replied; whichwas literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never saw yourmother."

  "Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?" persisted Ramona.

  "No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at theinnocent child's unconscious touch.

  Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and hereyes tearful. At last she said, "I wish I knew if my mother was dead."

  "Why?" asked the Senora.

  "Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me tostay with her."

  The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience.Taking the child in her arms, she said, "Who has been talking to you ofthese things, Ramona?"

  "Juan Can," she replied.

  "What did he say?" asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which bodedno good to Juan Canito.

  "It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,"answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her variousreminiscences on the subject. "Twice I heard him. He said that my motherwas no good, and that my father was bad too." And the tears rolled downthe child's cheeks.

  The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness,now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said,with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, "Ramona mustnot believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it.He never saw either your father or your mother, and so he could knownothing about them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man.He was my friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was thereason he gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child ofher own. And I think your mother had a good many."

  "Oh!" said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of thesituation,--that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to theSenora Ortegna. "Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter verymuch?"

  "Yes, very much indeed," said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. "Shehad grieved many years because she had no child."

  Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart,grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrustsinto the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified theSenora by saying in a half-whisper, "Why did not my father bring me toyou first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?"

  The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said:"Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. Iwas only a child, then."

  "Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe," continuedRamona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection withoutnoticing the Senora's reply. "A son is more than a daughter; but mostpeople have both," eying the Senora keenly, to see what response thiswould bring.

  But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the verymention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inabilityto love Ramona had swept through her mind. "Ramona," she said firmly,"while you are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things.When you are a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about yourfather and your mother. It is very little. Your father died when youwere only two years old. All that you have to do is to be a good child,and say your prayers, and when Father Salvierderra comes he will bepleased with you. And he will not be pleased if you ask troublesomequestions. Don't ever speak to me again about this. When the proper timecomes I will tell you myself."

  This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never againasked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She hadbeen a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had beenalways pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to heryear by year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora totell her anything more about her father and mother. There were fewmornings on which the girl did not think, "Perhaps it may be to-daythat she will tell me." But she would not ask. Every word of thatconversation was as vivid in her mind as it had been the day itoccurred; and it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that duringevery day of the whole nine years had deepened in her heart theconviction which had prompted the child's question, "Did he know thatyou did not want any daughter?"

  A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or atleast hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She neverput it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seemsometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity,with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, asresignation is above rebellious repining.

  No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitualconduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her facewas sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a humanbeing without a cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Herindustry was tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Conventof the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed herat much personal sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Morenoestate had ever seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters,who spoke of her habitually as the "blessed child." They had taught herall the dainty arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashionsof painting and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out ofbooks, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and romance.For serious study or for deep thought she had no vocation. She was asimple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful nature, like a clear brookrippling along in the sun,--a nature as unlike as possible to theSenora's, with its mysterious depths and stormy, hidden currents.

  Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender,sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could onlyexpress by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every dutypossible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost onSenora Moreno, though its source she never suspected; and it won no newrecognition from her for Ramona, no increase of love.

  But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of allthis graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more andmore he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobodyknew so well as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knewwhat it meant, how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipehad learned while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his motherwas to appear to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treatedhim. And long before he had become a man he had acquired the habit ofkeeping to himself most of the things he thought and felt about hislittle playmate sister,--a dangerous habit, out of which were slowlyripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years.