Ramona | Page 3

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Prepared by David Reed [email protected] or [email protected]

Ramona
by Helen Hunt Jackson

I
IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing
was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to
put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the
Senora's eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head of
his mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch,
the Senora thought. It had been always, "Ask Senor Felipe," "Go to
Senor Felipe," "Senor Felipe will attend to it," ever since Felipe had
had the dawning of a beard on his handsome face.
In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all
questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place,
from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the
Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day
and generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,-- as for that matter,
exceedingly clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever
for the day and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere

surface of it, if it had been written, would have made a romance, to
grow hot and cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the
wildest of New Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,--
the waves of them all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy
Catholic Church had had its arms round her from first to last; and that
was what had brought her safe through, she would have said, if she had
ever said anything about herself, which she never did,-- one of her
many wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was
known to veil such an imperious and passionate nature, brimful of
storm, always passing through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of
those who did it; adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A
tremendous force, wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no
stranger would suspect it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black
gown, with her rosary hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down,
and an expression of mingled melancholy and devotion on her face.
She looked simply like a sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and
indolent, like her race, but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont.
Her voice heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to
speak either loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in
her speech, which came near being a stammer,