The Squatter and the Don. María Amparo Ruiz de Burton

had informed him of Mary's intention of going.

      “Because I think it is best,” she answered.

      “Why is it best?”

      “For several reasons.”

      “May I be permitted to ask what are those reasons?”

      “Certainly. One reason is, that as I came to see my aunt and at the same time to rest and improve my health, and all those objects have been accomplished, I might as well go home. Then, my other aunt, with whom I reside, is not feeling well. She went to spend the summer in Virginia, but writes that her health has not improved much, and she will soon come back to Washington. Then some of my pupils will want to recommence their lessons soon, and I want to have some little time to myself before I begin to work. You know, Mr. Darrell, I teach to support myself.”

      “Yes, only because you have a notion to do it.”

      “A notion! Do you think I am rich?”

      “No, but there is no need of your working.”

      “It is a need to me to feel independent. I don't want to be supported by my aunts, while I know how to earn my own living.”

      “Miss Mary, please, I beg of you, let me have the happiness of taking care of you. Be my wife, I am not a rich man, but I have enough to provide for you.”

      “Mr. Darrell, you surprise me. I thank you for the compliment you pay me with your honorable offer, but I have no wish to get married.”

      “Do you reject me, Miss Mary? Tell me one thing; tell me truly, do you care for any one else?”

      “No, I care for nobody. I don't want to marry.”

      “But you will marry some time. If you knew how very miserable you make me, I think you would not have the heart to refuse me.”

      “You will get over it. I am going soon. Forget me.”

      Darrell made no answer. He staggered out of the room and did not return until the following week, when Mary had left for Washington, accompanied by Letitia, her colored servant (called Tisha), who was devotedly attached to her.

      Darrell had become rather taciturn and less sociable than ever, Mrs. Newton noticed, and since Mary left he seemed to lose flesh and all his spirits, and passed the winter as if life were a burden to him. But when spring came, he brightened up a little, though he felt far from happy. About that time Mrs. Newton had a letter from Mary, saying that she was going to spend vacation in Maryland with her other aunt, and Tisha for her escort.

      “She don't come here, because she fears I shall pester her life with my visits. As she knows I can't keep away from her, she keeps away from you. She hates me. I suppose you, too, will take to hating me, by and by,” said Darrell, when he heard that Mary was not coming that summer.

      “No danger of that, William,” Mrs. Newton replied.

      “Yes, there is. You ought to hate me for driving her away. I hate myself worse than I hate the devil.”

      “William, you mustn't feel so. It isn't right.”

      “I know it. But when did I ever do anything right, I'd like to know? I wish I could hate her as I hate myself, or as she hates me.”

      “William, she does not hate you.”

      “How do you know she don't?”

      “Because she would have told me. She is very truthful.”

      “I know it. She gave me my walking papers in a jiffy. I wish I could hate her.”

      “William, do you promise not to get angry, if I tell you why Mary declined your offer?”

      “Say on. You couldn't well make a burning furnace any hotter. I am too mad already.”

      “Well, I'll tell you. She likes you, but is afraid of you.”

      “Afraid? afraid?” said he, aghast—“why! that is awful! I, an object of fear, when I worship the ground she treads on! But, how? What have I done? When did I frighten her?”

      “At no particular time; but often you gave her the impression that you have a high temper, and she told me, ‘If I loved Mr. Darrell better than my life, I wouldn't marry him, for I could never be happy with a man of a violent temper.’ Then she spoke, too, of her being a Roman Catholic and you a Protestant.”

      “But you are a Catholic and uncle is Protestant.”

      “Certainly, I think the barrier is not insuperable.”

      “So, my temper frightened her! It is awful!” He mused in silence for a few minutes and then left the room.

      About an hour after, he returned dressed for traveling, carrying a satchel in one hand and a tin box under his arm. He put the box on the table, saying:

      “Aunt Newton, I am going away for a few days. Please take care of this box until I return or you hear from me. Good-by!” and he hurried away, for he had only barely time to catch the train going to New York.

      Darrell was in New York for a few hours. He bought a finer suit of clothes, a very elegant light overcoat, hat and boots, and gloves to match, and thus equipped so elegantly that he hardly recognized himself, as he surveyed his figure in a large mirror of the furnishing store, where he was so metamorphosed, he took the night train for Washington.

      It was early on a Sunday morning that Darrell arrived at Washington. He went to a hotel, entered his name, took a room, a bath and a breakfast, and then called a hack to go in search of Mary. He knew that was not an hour for calling, but he had business with Mary. His was no friendly visit; it was a matter of life and death with him.

      He rang the bell, and presently he heard Tisha's flapping steps coming. “Lud a massa!” she exclaimed, stepping back. But recovering herself, said with true heartiness—

      “Come in the parlor, please. It is true glad Miss Mary will be to see ye.”

      “Do you think so, Tisha?” he asked.

      “I know it; no thinking about it, neither. She is going to mass; but she'll see you for a little while, anyway.”

      Opening the parlor door for Darrell to walk in, Tisha ran up stairs to Mary's room.

      “Oh Miss Mary!” said she, “guess who is down stairs.”

      “I couldn't, Tish, being so early and on Sunday, but I heard a man's voice. Is it a gentleman?”

      “You bet; ah! please excuse me, I mean sure as I live it is, and no other than Mr. Darrell, from New England.”

      “Ah!” said Miss Mary, affecting indifference, but her hands trembled as she tied her bonnet strings.

      Darrell knew he must appear self-contained and not in the least impetuous, but when he saw those beautiful dark eyes of Mary's he forgot all his pretended calmness.

      “Is my aunt well?” Mary began as she came in.

      “Yes, yes, everybody is well; don't be alarmed at my coming, I know it must seem strange to you. Two days ago I had no idea of coming to Washington, but Miss Moreneau, your aunt told me you were not coming North this summer, and this news nearly drove me crazy.”

      “Oh, Mr. Darrell!”

      “Wait, don't drive me off yet. Your aunt told me that you refused me because you believe I have a violent temper. Now, I am not going to deny that, but this I am going to say—That I have never violated my word, and never shall, and I make a most solemn oath to you, that if you will marry me you shall never have occasion to be made unhappy or displeased by my quick anger, because you will only have to remind me of this pledge, and I shall curb my temper, if it kills me.”

      “Mr. Darrell, I believe you are perfectly sincere in what you say, but a strong trait of character is not controlled