When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute2 for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. “If the saints would only tell me where he is!” she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there, fearing each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune was favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she saw Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. “Oh, Felipe, Felipe!” she began.
“Yes, dear, I know it all,” interrupted Felipe; “Alessandro has told me.”
“She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe,” said Ramona, “but I could not bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?”
“My mother forbade you to speak to me!” cried Felipe, in a tone of terror. “Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking, she will be even more displeased4. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to me. I will do all that I can.”
“I know! I know!” said Felipe; “but you must not make my mother any more angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?”
“Yes,” sobbed7 Ramona, “but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent, will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now.”
Felipe's face was horror-stricken. “Shut you in the convent!” he gasped8. “Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk to her. Fly, I implore9 you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me talking with you now;” and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the terrace.
Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again, meditating10 a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro? Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when she entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless weeping. If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's journey on his way to Temecula, galloping11 farther and farther away from her each moment, she would have despaired indeed.
This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's face and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe was alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not conceive why her wrath12 should have been so severe. The longer he talked with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be out of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. “I will say that I sent you,” said Felipe, “so she cannot feel that you have committed any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time it will be all settled what you shall do.”
It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not need Felipe's exclamation13 of surprise, to convince him that it would be foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment14 had told him that it would be out of the question.
“But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is for her sake I go?” the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's eyes as if he would read his inmost soul.
“I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will,” replied Felipe; and he held his hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. “You may trust me to do all I can do for Ramona and for you.”
“God bless you, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved.
“He's a noble fellow,” said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all night,—“a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who would have been manlier15 or franker than he has been in this whole business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to be done!”
Felipe was sorely perplexed16. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming now. He was unaware17 of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted whether he could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in the convent terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had she power to do that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she had, or she would not have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the cruel injustice18 of the idea.
“As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!” he said. “I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can make my mother feel so!” And Felipe paced back and forth19 till the sun was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek shelter; then he threw himself down under the willows20. He dreaded22 to go into the house. His instinctive23 shrinking from the disagreeable, his disposition24 to put off till another time, held him back, hour by hour. The longer he thought the situation over, the less he knew how to broach25 the subject to his mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would be wise for him to broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. It was Margarita, who had been sent to call him to dinner. “Good heavens! dinner already!” he cried, springing to his feet.
“Yes, Senor,” replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down the river road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look, and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door together soon after breakfast. Margarita could have given a tolerably connected account of all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours to the chief actors in this tragedy which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and her every pulse was beating high with excited conjecture27 and wonder as to what would come next.
Dinner was a silent and constrained28 meal,—Ramona absent, the fiction of her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's face, she thought to herself, “Ramona has spoken to him. When and how did she do it?” For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left her presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her own room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the morning on the veranda30 within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, when, and where had she contrived31 to communicate with Felipe? The longer the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not only against her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled32 out towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise retort, “Felipe would not let you!” What had Felipe done or said to make the girl so sure that he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it come to this, that she, the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own house by children and servants!
It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as she rose from the dinner-table, “My son, I would like to have some conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure.”
“Certainly, mother,” said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed33 him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm, and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said: “This is the most fitting way, my son. I must lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age is telling on me fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in the last year?”
“No, madre mia,” replied Felipe, “indeed I do not. I see not that you have changed in the last ten years.” And he was honest in this. His eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld34; it was kindled35 by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him.
The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: “That must be because you so love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged26 frightfully;” and she looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where poor Ramona had swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing36 before her, gazing, with a tender expression, upon her features, but saying nothing.
“I see that Ramona has told you all!” she continued, her voice hardening as she spoke29. What a fortunate wording of her sentence!
“No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this morning, early,” Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. “He came and spoke to me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning, and then I would hear all he had to say.”
“Ah!” said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she asked, “And what did he say?”
“He told me all that had happened.”
“All!” said the Senora, sneeringly37. “Do you suppose that he told you all?”
“He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight,” said Felipe, “and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought you would prefer not to see him again.”
“Ah!” said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so promptly38 seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. “Ah, I did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might devise some measures by which he could be retained on the estate.”
Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the relentless39 displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming? In his astonishment40, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure that retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode41 any good to Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor42, sanguine43, at the first glimpse of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully44, “Ah, dear mother, if that could only be done, all would be well;” and, never noting the expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, he poured out all he thought and felt on the subject.
“That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That would give them a good living here with us.”
“Enough!” cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears like a voice from some other world,—so hollow, so strange. He stopped speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement45. At the first words he had uttered, the Senora had fixed46 her eyes on the floor,—a habit of hers when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes now, fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not all his filial reverence47 could bear without resentment48. It was nearly as scornful as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored.
“Why do you look at me like that, mother?” he exclaimed. “What have I done?”
The Senora waved her hand imperiously. “Enough!” she reiterated49. “Do not say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;” and she fixed her eyes on the floor again.
Felipe studied her countenance50. A more nearly rebellious51 feeling than he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for the first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl like Ramona.
“Poor little one!” he thought. “If my mother looked at her as she did at me just now, I wonder she did not die.”
A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom52. Wrath against Ramona was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time in his whole life, angered her beyond her control.
“As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature,” she thought bitterly to herself, “without her coming between me and Felipe!”
But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor53, came the rush of the mother's passionate54 love for her son close on the passionate anger at his words.
When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote55 Felipe to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said in trembling tones: “Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything could make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us too dear. She must leave the house.”
Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied: “I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing wrong in her loving Alessandro.”
“I found her in his arms!” exclaimed the Senora.
“I know,” said Felipe; “Alessandro told me that he had just at that instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would marry him, just as you came up.”
“Humph!” retorted the Senora; “do you think that Indian would have dared to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to speak about marriage to her at all.”
“Oh, mother! mother!” was all that Felipe could say to this. He was aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. “Mother!” he repeated, in a tone which spoke volumes.
“Ay,” she continued, “that is what I say. I see no reason why he hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small ceremony of marrying.”
“Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would, mother,” said Felipe courageously56; “you do him injustice.” He longed to add, “And Ramona too,” but he feared to make bad matters worse by pleading for her at present.
“No, I do not,” said the Senora; “I do Alessandro full justice. I think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has happened. It is all Ramona's fault.”
Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood, and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear her thus wickedly accused.
“Mother!” he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him in sudden astonishment. “Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona. I have seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under her feet; and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it too! She has seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all her soul, just as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I am ever loved as well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think they ought to be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to the estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful in it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly57 natural. You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family; you know she is half Indian.” A scornful ejaculation from his mother interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to stop, because if he did, his mother would speak; and already he felt a terror of what her next words might be. “I have often thought about Ramona's future, mother. You know a great many men would not want to marry her, just because she is half Indian. You, yourself, would never have given your consent to my marrying her, if I had wanted to.” Again an exclamation from the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe pressed on. “No, of course you would not, I always knew that; except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl never drew breath in this God's earth.” Felipe was reckless now; having entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon that lay within his reach; if one did not tell, another might. “You have never loved her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I don't think you have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how much kinder you were to me than to her, and I never could understand it. And you are unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've seen her and Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not be willing to have my own sister do!” Here Felipe paused. He had made his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at the onset58; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars.
When he paused, literally59 breathless, he had spoken so fast,—and even yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined his constitution,—the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said in a now composed tone: “You do not believe that Ramona has done anything that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?”
Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do. Nothing could possibly compensate60 her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards her; or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would be no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he determined61 the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate crisis.
Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately62, in her wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook63. How just and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly, with an expression in her eyes, of poising64 and weighing matters. “Would you be willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?”
Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give but one answer to this question. “No, mother,” he said, “I should not; but—”
“Never mind buts,” interrupted his mother; “we have not got to those yet;” and she smiled on Felipe,—an affectionate smile, but it somehow gave him a feeling of dread21. “Of course I knew you could make but one answer to my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her dead than married to any one of these Indians.”
Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. “Not so,” he said.
“Wait, dear!” exclaimed his mother. “One thing at a time, I see how full your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when listening just now to your eloquent65 defence of Ramona, Perhaps you may be right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not discuss those points.” It was here that the Senora had perceived some things that it would be out of her power to do. “We will not discuss those, because they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is our duty to do by Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on her worthiness66 or unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you to allow her to do what you would not allow your own sister to do?” The Senora paused for a second, noted67 with secret satisfaction how puzzled and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on, “You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?” And now the Senora waited for an answer.
“No, mother,” came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. “I suppose not; but—”
“I was sure my own son could make no other reply,” interrupted the Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to her questions. “Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona do anything which we would not let her do if she were really of our own blood. That is the way I have always looked at my obligation to her. My sister intended to rear her as her own daughter. She had given her her own name. When my sister died, she transferred to me all her right and responsibility in and for the child. You do not suppose that if your aunt had lived, she would have ever given her consent to her adopted daughter's marrying an Indian, do you?”
Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe said, in a low tone, “No, I suppose she would not.”
“Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust reposed68 in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?”
“Yes, mother,” said the unhappy Felipe.
He saw the meshes69 closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out; in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all had been said and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was evident that it would never be with his mother's consent. “Nor with mine either, openly, the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet I have promised Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck, I wish he had never set foot on the place!” said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable70, and tired with the perplexity.
The Senora continued: “I shall always blame myself bitterly for having failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with us a great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one thing and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's being in danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover, any more than of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any other of the herdsmen or laborers71. I regret it more than words can express, and I do not know what we can do, now that it has happened.”
“That's it, mother! That's it!” broke in Felipe. “You see, you see it is too late now.”
The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. “I suppose you would really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place, Of course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant for Ramona to stay here, and see him continually—at least for a time, until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived for him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do.” The Senora artfully interpolated, “What should you think, Felipe, of having her go back to the Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there.”
The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had cried to him in the garden, “Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the convent, will you?” “Mother!” he cried, “you would never do that. You would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!”
The Senora raised her eyebrows72 in astonishment. “Who spoke of shutting up?” she said. “Ramona has already been there at school. She might go again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?” And a third time the Senora paused for an answer.
These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when, withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as settled, much which had never been settled at all, were among the best weapons in the Senora's armory73. They rarely failed her.
“Advise!” cried Felipe, excitedly. “Advise! This is what I advise—to let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it.”
“Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,” interrupted the Senora, sighing. “I don't quite see how you would face it.”
“Well, I don't propose to face it,” continued Felipe, testily74. “I don't propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go away with him, if she wants to.'
“Without our consent?” said the Senora, gently.
“Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how he loves her. Let her go!”
“Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?” asked the Senora, earnestly. “Run away and marry him, spite of our refusing to consent to the marriage?”
“I do,” said Felipe.
“Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, is to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she pleases?”
“That's just what I do think, mother,” replied Felipe, his heart growing lighter75 at her words. “That's just what I do think. We can't prevent it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they like.”
“Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then,” said the Senora. “They could not stay here.”
“I don't see why!” said Felipe, anxiously.
“You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't you see that would be so?”
Felipe's eyes fell. “Then I suppose they couldn't be married here, either,” he said.
“True, mother;” and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. “But then we force them to run away!”
“Oh, no.” said the Senora, icily. “If they go, they will go of their own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for not having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done.”
Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited77; felt as if he had betrayed his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication, network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did not see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother; he did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed.
The Senora studied his face. “You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,” she said tenderly. “As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate state of affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?”
“No,” said Felipe, bitterly. “I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just turning Ramona out of the house, that's all.”
“Felipe! Felipe!” exclaimed the Senora, “how unjust you are to yourself! You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a home here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is it our fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to what is just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You know I promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have always felt that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died. Ramona has a home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. It is not just, Felipe, to say that we turn her out;” and tears stood in the Senora's eyes.
“Forgive me, dear mother,” cried the unhappy Felipe. “Forgive me for adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable78 business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with.”
“Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,” replied the Senora. “If it were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares and burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I feel myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe, I wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send for Ramona at once, and tell her what we have decided79. She is no doubt in great anxiety; we will see her here.”
Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew not how to bring this about he assented80 to his mother's suggestion.
Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way, unlocked Ramona's door, and said: “Ramona, be so good as to come to my room. Felipe and I have something to say to you.”
“The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,” thought Ramona. “Oh, what will become of me!” and she stole a reproachful, imploring82 look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured83 her; but the reassurance84 did not last long.
“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed to open a gulf85 between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold and distant they sounded,—as the Senora might speak to an intruding86 stranger.
“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” she said, “my son and I have been discussing what it is best for us to do in the mortifying87 and humiliating position in which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of course you know—or you ought to know—that it is utterly88 impossible for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that.”
Ramona's eyes dilated89, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with downcast eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment90 on his face, despair seized her. Felipe had deserted91 their cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro! Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,—a cry that cut Felipe to the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of Ramona's suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he had realized. It would have taken very little, at such moments as these, to have made Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her side, folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance92. It took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust to Ramona's understanding him later.
Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: “My son tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the keeping of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted you as her child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some means of escape, and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal on the family. Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to bring you to reason in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I wish to impress it upon you that my son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's representative, consider you a member of our own family. So long as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it always has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and us by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves.”
The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the Senora's face, as if she would penetrate93 to her inmost soul; the girl was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and her perceptions were sharpened by love.
“Have you anything to say to me or to my son?” asked the Senora.
“No, Senora,” replied Ramona; “I do not think of anything more to say than I said this morning. Yes,” she added, “there is. Perhaps I shall not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for the home you have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe,” she continued, turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up affection and sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,—“you too, dear Felipe. You have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as long as I live;” and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took them in his, and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted him. She did not intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between her son and Ramona.
“Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?” she said. “Is it your purpose to go at once?”
“I do not know, Senora,” stammered94 Ramona; “I have not seen Alessandro; I have not heard—” And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who answered compassionately,—
“Alessandro has gone.”
“Only for four days,” replied Felipe. “To Temecula. I thought it would be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow.”
“Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with him? Oh, why, why did he go?” cried Ramona.
“He went because my son told him to go,” broke in the Senora, impatient of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's expressive96 features. “My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him would be more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away, and Alessandro obeyed.”
Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe, and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute3 and dauntless spite of the streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, “You have been cruel; God will punish you!” and without waiting to see what effect her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she walked swiftly out of the room.
“You see,” said the Senora, “you see she defies us.”
“She is desperate,” said Felipe. “I am sorry I sent Alessandro away.”
“No, my son,” replied the Senora, “you were wise, as you always are. It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in solitude97.”
“You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?” cried Felipe.
The Senora turned a look of apparently98 undisguised amazement on him. “You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we could do, was simply not to interfere99 with her in any way? To wash our hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?”
“Yes, yes,” said the baffled Felipe; “that was what I said. But, mother—” He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say.
“What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to say or do?” she asked.
“What is it you are going to do, mother?” said Felipe. “I don't seem to understand what you are going to do.”
“Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely101 convinced me that all effort would be thrown away. I shall do nothing,” replied the Senora. “Nothing whatever.”
“Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always has been?” said Felipe.
The Senora smiled sadly. “Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the Moreno and the Ortegna name,—we can't feel exactly the same towards her as we did before, can we?”
Felipe made an impatient gesture. “No, of course not. But I mean, is everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?”
“I supposed so,” said the Senora. “Was not that your idea? We must try to have it so, I think. Do not you?”
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收听单词发音
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1
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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6
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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7
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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8
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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10
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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12
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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13
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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14
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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manlier
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| manly（有男子气概的）的比较级形式 | |
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16
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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17
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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21
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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22
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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23
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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29
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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30
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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32
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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34
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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35
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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36
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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37
sneeringly
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| 嘲笑地，轻蔑地 | |
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38
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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39
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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40
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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42
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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43
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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44
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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45
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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46
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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47
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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48
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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49
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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52
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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53
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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54
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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55
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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56
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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59
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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60
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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61
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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63
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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64
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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65
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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66
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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67
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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68
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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70
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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71
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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72
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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73
armory
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| n.纹章，兵工厂，军械库 | |
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74
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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75
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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76
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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77
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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78
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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79
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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80
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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82
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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83
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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84
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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85
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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86
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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87
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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88
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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89
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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91
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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92
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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93
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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94
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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98
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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99
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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100
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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101
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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