The phrase, "my house," smote the Senora's ear like a note from some other sphere, which indeed it was,-- from the new world into which Felipe had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his crutches. "Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe!
Oh, Senora!" they cried. "Thieves have been here in the night!
Baba is gone,-- Baba, and the Senorita's saddle."
A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to Felipe, she said in a tone -- what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never forget,-- "As you were saying, like a thief in the night!"
With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his mother, "For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men! -- What is that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come down, after breakfast, and look at it;" and turning his back on them, he drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house.
She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.
"Ay, mother," he said, "you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins, be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back."
"The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!" retorted the Senora, at white heat. "You may rear as many Indian families as you please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!"
In spite of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within her, when those words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged hands as they lay trembling in her lap. "Mother mia," he cried, "you will break my heart if you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command me to do what a man may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can I see my sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?"
"I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home," said the Senora, regaining herself a little. "Had they no plans?
Spoke she not in her letter of what they would do?"
"Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first," he replied.
"Ah!" The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was that this would be the best possible thing which could happen.
"Father Salvierderra will counsel them what to do," she said. "He could no doubt establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect, you will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any way you like, but do not bring them here." She paused. "Not until I am dead, Felipe! It will not be long."
Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. "My Felipe!" she said. "It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!"
"Mother! mother!" he cried in anguish. "I am yours,-- wholly, devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?"
"I will not torture you more," she said wearily, in a feeble tone. "I ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in the night! Ay, a horse-thief!"
Felipe sprang to his feet.
"Mother." he said, "Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as soon as he was born!"
The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many days. She seemed hovering between life and death.
Felipe watched over her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion. She spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from despair. The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would take long. Yet she was dying, and she knew it.
Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a time. And now he would go in search of Ramona.
How he hoped he should find them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he should find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the possibility of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help them, if need be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as he lived.
When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, "You are so strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away long,-- not over a week," she understood, and with a deep sigh replied: "I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey must be taken, it is as well done now."
How was the Senora changed!
"It must be, mother," said Felipe, "or I would not leave you. I will set off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight."
But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. "You must go, my son?" she asked at last.
"I must, mother!" and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her again and again. "Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?"
"No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell."
And she turned, that she might not see him go.
Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter.
Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen any such persons.
