Part 39 (1/2)

”Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger,” he said.

As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door, her eyes in a gla.s.sy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pa.s.s his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead.

At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion, Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place.

Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son, to find behind that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died with that look of anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad duties of the next four days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent of this premonition. The funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could not hold the quarter part of those who came, from far and near. Everybody wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done, they bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at last, the restless, pa.s.sionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night after the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered, ”Oh, he must not! He will break his heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!”

Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: ”Dear Senor Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!”

But he put her gently by, saying, ”I would rather be here, good Marda;”

and went in and locked the door.

It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he sat motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul was wrung.

”And she thought that shame, and not this!” he said bitterly.

But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it must go to the Santa Barbara College.

”Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church,” he said.

”But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh, shame! oh, disgrace!” From the grave in which Felipe had buried his mother now, was no resurrection.

Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling him of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies would belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to Juan Canito, saying: ”I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything happens to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger to Santa Barbara.”

”Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?” asked the old man, piteously.

”I cannot tell, Juan,” replied Felipe. ”It may be only a short time; it may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in charge.”

”Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!” exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been for two years. ”Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy till now, I have had no thought except for your house.”

Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in h.e.l.l, had she known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of the gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping behind her body borne to burial.

”And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!” he said. ”My G.o.d!”

XXII

DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response.

After they were camped for the night, she said, ”Dear Alessandro, will you not tell me where we are going?”

In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: ”My Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round as leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I can be going mad? It was enough to make me!”

Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could.

”Dear Alessandro,” she said, ”let us go to Los Angeles, and not live with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing to do, too. It would be better, I think.”

He looked horror-stricken at the thought. ”Go live among the white people!” he cried. ”What does Majella think would become of one Indian, or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive us out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh, Majella is foolis.h.!.+”

”But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino and other places,” she persisted. ”Why could not we do as they do?”

”Yes,” he said bitterly, ”at work for whites; so they are, Majella has not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father has told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a white man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella.

And now they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes in bad flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if he will not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to go, then. One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not take a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the cheek with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill some man, Majella, if I saw things like that.”