The Squatter and the Don

CHAPTER I

SQUATTER DARRELL REVIEWS THE PAST

To be guided by good advice, is to profit by the wisdom of others; to be guided by experience, is to profit by wisdom of our own, said Mrs. Darrell to her husband, in her own sweet, winning way, as they sat alone in the sitting room of their Alameda farm house, having their last talk that evening, while she darned his stockings and sewed buttons on his shirts. The children (so-called, though the majority were grown up) had all retired for the night. Mr. and Mrs. Darrell sat up later, having much to talk about, as he would leave next day for Southern California, intending to locate—somewhere in a desirable neighborhood—a homestead claim.¹

Therefore, continued Mrs. Darrell, seeing that her husband smoked his pipe in silence, adding no observations to her own, let us this time be guided by our own past history, William—our experience. In other words, let us be wise, my husband.

By way of variety, you mean, said he smiling. That is, as far as I am concerned, because I own, frankly, that had I been guided by your advice—your wisdom—we would be much better off to-day. You have a right to reproach me.

I do not wish to do anything of the kind. I think reproaches seldom do good.

No use in crying over spilt milk, eh?

"That is not my idea, either. On the contrary, if by ‘milk’ it is meant all or any earthly good whatever, it is the ‘spilt milk’ that we should lament. There is no reason to cry for the milk that has not been wasted, the good that is not lost. So let us cry for the spilt milk, by all means, if by doing so we learn how to avoid spilling any more. Let us cry for the spilt milk, and remember how, and where, and when, and why, we spilt it. Much wisdom is learnt through tears, but none by forgetting our lessons."

But how can a man learn when he is born a fool?

"Only an idiot is, truly speaking, a born fool; a fool to such a degree that he cannot act wisely if he will. It is only when perversity is added to foolishness, that a being—not an idiot—is utterly a fool. To persist in acting wrongfully, that is the real folly. To reject good counsel, either of one’s own good thoughts or the good thoughts of others. But to act foolishly by deciding hastily, by lack of mature reflection, that I should only call a foolish mistake. So, then, if we have been foolish, let us at least utilize our foolishness by drawing from it lessons of wisdom for the future. We cannot conscientiously plead that we are born fools when we see our errors."

Mr. Darrell smilingly bowed, and with a voice much softer than his usual stentorian tones, said:

I understand, little wife, but I fear that my streak of perversity is a broad one, and has solely been the bane of my life; it has a fatality accompanying it. I have often seen the right way to act, and yet I have gone with my eyes wide open to do the wrong thing. And this, too, not meaning to do harm to any one, nor wishing to be malicious or mean. I don’t know what power impelled me. But if you will forgive my past wickedness, I’ll try to do better.

Don’t say that. Don’t speak of your wickedness, for real wickedness is perversity. You have acted wrongly at times, when you have misapplied your rights and the rights of others, but you have not intentionally done wrong. You are not perverse; don’t say that.

"In a few days it will be twenty-four years since we crossed the plains with our three babies, in our caravan of four wagons, followed by our fine horses and choice Durham cows. I firmly believed then, that with my fine stock and my good bank account, and broad government lands, free to all Americans, I should have given you a nice home before I was five years older; that I would have saved money and would be getting more to make us rich before I was old. But see, at the end of twenty-four years, where and how do I find myself? I am still poor, all I have earned is the name of ‘Squatter.’² That pretty name (which I hate because you despise it) is what I have earned."

Don’t say that either, William. We will only recommence one of numerous fruitless discussions. We are not poor, because we have enough to live in comfort, and I do not despise the name of Squatter, for it is harmless enough, but I do certainly disapprove of acts done by men because they are squatters, or to become squatters. They have caused much trouble to people who never harmed them.

They, too, the poor squatters, have suffered as much distress as they have caused, the poor hard-worked toilers.

That is very true, but I am afraid I shall never be able to see the necessity of any one being a squatter in this blessed country of plentiful broad acres, which a most liberal government gives away for the asking.

"That’s exactly it. We aren’t squatters. We are ‘settlers.’ We take up land that belongs to us, American citizens, by paying the government price for it."

"Whenever you take up government land, yes, you are ‘settlers,’ but not when you locate claims on land belonging to any one else. In that case, you must accept the epithet of ‘Squatter.’ "

Darrell set his teeth so tightly, that he bit a little chip off his pipe. Mrs. Darrell went on as if she had not observed her husband’s flash of irritation.

"But I hope we will never more deserve such name; I trust that before you locate any homestead claim in Southern California, you will first inform yourself, very carefully, whether any one has a previous claim. And more specially, I beg of you, do not go on a Mexican grant³ unless you buy the land from the owner. This I beg of you specially, and must insist upon it."

"And how am I to know who is the owner of a rancho⁴ that has been rejected, for instance?"

If the rancho is still in litigation, don’t buy land in it, or if you do, buy title from the original grantee, on fair conditions and clear understanding.

"I don’t know whether that can be done in the Alamar rancho, which I am going to see, and I know it has been rejected. But of one thing you can rest assured, that I shall not forget our sad experience in Napa and Sonoma valleys,⁵ where—after years of hard toil—I had to abandon our home and lose the earnings of years and years of hard work."

That is all I ask, William. To remember our experience in Napa and Sonoma. To remember, also, that we are no longer young. We cannot afford to throw away another twenty years of our life; and really and truly, if you again go into a Mexican grant, William, I shall not follow you there willingly. Do not expect it of me; I shall only go if you compel me.

Compel you! he exclaimed, laughing. Compel you, when you know I have obeyed you all my life.

Oh! no, William, not all your life, for you were well grown before I ever saw you.

"I mean ever since I went to Washington⁶ with my mind made up to jump off the train coming back, if you didn’t agree to come North to be my commandant."

I don’t think I have been a very strict disciplinarian, she said, smiling. I think the subaltern has had pretty much his own way.

Yes, when he thinks he might. But when the commandant pulls the string, by looking sad or offended, then good-by to the spirit and independence of the subaltern.

One thing I must not forget to ask you; she said, going back to the point of their digression, and it is, not to believe what those men have been telling you about the Alamar rancho having been finally rejected. You know John Gasbang could never speak the truth, and years have not made him more reliable. As for Miller, Hughes and Mathews, they are dishonest enough, and though not so brazen as Gasbang, they will misrepresent facts to induce you to go with them, for they want you with them.

"I know they do; I see through all that: But I see, too, that San Diego is sure to have a railroad direct to the Eastern States.⁷ Lands will increase in value immediately; so I think, myself, I had better take time by the forelock and get a good lot of land in the Alamar grant, which is quite near town."

But, are you sure it is finally rejected?

I saw the book, where the fact is recorded. Isn’t that enough?

Yes, if there has been no error.

Always the same cautious Mary Moreneau, who tortured me with her doubts and would not have me until Father White took compassion on me, said he, smiling, looking at her fondly, for his thoughts reverted back to those days when Miss Mary was afraid to marry him; but, after all, he won her and brought her all the way from Washington to his New England home.

William Darrell was already a well-to-do young farmer in those days, a bachelor twenty-eight to thirty years of age, sole heir to a flourishing New England farm, and with a good account in a Boston bank, when Miss Mary Moreneau came to New England from Washington to visit her aunt, Mrs. Newton. As Mrs. Newton’s husband was William Darrell’s uncle, nothing was more natural than for Mary to meet him at his uncle’s house. Nobody expected that William would fall in love with her, as he seemed to be proof against Cupid’s darts. The marriageable maidens of William’s neighborhood had in vain tried to attract the obdurate young farmer, who seemed to enjoy no other society than that of his uncle Newton and his wife.

But Mary came and William surrendered at once. She, however, gave him no encouragement. Her coldness seemed only to inflame his love the more, until Miss Moreneau thought it was best to shorten her visit and return home about the middle of September.

Why are you to return home so early? Darrell asked Mary, after Mrs. Newton 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.⁸

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 easily. It is more apt to be uncontrollable.

For God’s sake don’t refuse me, I feel I must kill myself if you spurn me. I don’t want life without you.

Don’t say that, Mary said, trying to keep calm, but she felt as if being carried away in spite of herself, by the torrent of his impetuosity. She was afraid of him, but she liked him and she liked to be loved in that passionate rebellious way of his; she smiled, adding, we must postpone this conversation for I must go to church, and it is quite a long walk there.

The carriage that brought me is at the door, take it, and don’t walk, it is quite warm out.

Will you go with me to church? You see, that is another obstacle; the difference of religions.

Indeed, that is no obstacle; your religion tells you to pity me.

We will talk to Father White about that.

Then Mary, my beloved, will you give me hope?

And will you really try to control your anger when you feel it is getting the mastery over you?

I will, so help me God, said he, lifting his hand.

Take care, that is an oath.

I know it, and mean it, said he, much moved.

They went to church together. After church, Mary had a few moments conversation with her pastor. She explained everything to him. Do you love him, my child, asked the good father, knowing the human heart only too well. Mary blushed and said—

Yes, father, I believe I do.

Very well, send him to see me to-morrow morning.

Darrell had a long talk with Father White, and promised solemnly not to coerce or influence his wife to change her religion, and that should their union be blessed with children, they should be baptized and brought up Catholics.

And his union was blessed. Mary made his New England home a paradise, and eight children, sharing largely their mother’s fine qualities, filled to overflowing his cup of happiness.

CHAPTER II

THE DON’S VIEW OF THE TREATY OF GUADALUPE HIDALGO

¹

If there had been such a thing as communicating by telephone in the days of ’72,² and there had been those magic wires spanning the distance between William Darrell’s house in Alameda County and that of Don Mariano Alamar in San Diego County, with power to transmit the human voice for five hundred miles, a listener at either end would have heard various discussions upon the same subject, differentiated only by circumstances. No magic wires crossed San Francisco Bay to bring the sound of voices to San Diego, but the law of necessity made the Squatter and the Don, distant as they were—distant in every way, without reckoning the miles between them—talk quite warmly of the same matter. The point of view was of course different, for how could it be otherwise? Darrell thought himself justified, and authorized, to take up lands, as he had done before. He had had more than half of California’s population on his side,³ and though the Squatter’s Sovereignty was now rather on the wane, and the squatter vote was no longer the power, still, the squatters would not abdicate, having yet much to say about election times.

But Darrell was no longer the active squatter that he had been. He controlled many votes yet, but in his heart he felt the weight which his wife’s sad eyes invariably put there when the talk was of litigating against a Mexican land title.

This time, however, Darrell honestly meant to take no land but what belonged to the United States. His promise to his wife was sincere, yet his coming to Southern California had already brought trouble to the Alamar rancho.

Don Mariano Alamar was silently walking up and down the front piazza of his house at the rancho; his hands listlessly clasped behind and his head slightly bent forward in deep thought. He had pushed away to one side the many armchairs and wicker rockers with which the piazza was furnished. He wanted a long space to walk. That his meditations were far from agreeable, could easily be seen by the compressed lips, slight frown, and sad gaze of his mild and beautiful blue eyes.⁴ Sounds of laughter, music and dancing came from the parlor; the young people were entertaining friends from town with their usual gay hospitality, and enjoying themselves heartily. Don Mariano, though already in his fiftieth year, was as fond of dancing as his sons and daughters, and not to see him come in and join the quadrille⁵ was so singular that his wife thought she must come out and inquire what could detain him. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear her voice calling him—

What keeps you away? Lizzie has been looking for you; she wants you for a partner in the lancers, said Doña Josefa, putting her arm under that of her husband, bending her head forward and turning it up to look into his eyes.

What is the matter? she asked, stopping short, thus making her husband come to a sudden halt. I am sure something has happened. Tell me.

Nothing, dear wife. Nothing has happened. That is to say, nothing new.

More squatters? she asked. Señor Alamar bent his head slightly, in affirmative reply.

More coming, you mean?

Yes, wife; more. Those two friends of squatters Mathews and Hager, who were here last year to locate claims and went away, did not abandon their claims, but only went away to bring proselytes and their families, and a large invoice of them will arrive on to-morrow’s steamer. The worst of it all is, that among the new comers is that terrible and most dangerous squatter William Darrell, who some years ago gave so much trouble to the Spanish people in Napa and Sonoma Counties, by locating claims there. John Gasbang wrote to Hogsden that besides Darrell, there will be six or seven other men bringing their families, so that there will be more rifles for my cattle.

But, didn’t we hear that Darrell was no longer a squatter, that he is rich and living quietly in Alameda?

Yes, we heard that, and it is true. He is quite well off, but Gasbang and Miller and Mathews went and told him that my rancho had been rejected, and that it is near enough to town to become valuable, as soon as we have a railroad. Darrell believed it, and is coming to locate here.

Strange that Darrell should believe such men; I suppose he does not know how low they are.

He ought to know them, for they were his teamsters when he crossed the plains in ’48. That is, Miller, Mathews, Hughes and Hager, were his teamsters, and Gasbang was their cook—the cook for the hired men. Mrs. Darrell had a colored woman who cooked for the Darrell family; she despised Gasbang’s cooking as we despise his character, I suppose.

Doña Josefa was silent, and holding to her husband’s arm, took a turn with him up and down the piazza.

Is it possible that there is no law to protect us; to protect our property; what does your lawyer say about obtaining redress or protection; is there no hope? she asked, with a sigh.

Protection for our land, or for our cattle, you mean?

For both, as we get it for neither, she said.

In the matter of our land, we have to await for the attorney general, at Washington, to decide.

Lizzie was telling Elvira, yesterday, that her uncle Lawrence is a friend of several influential people in Washington, and that George can get him to interest himself in having your title decided.

But, as George is to marry my daughter, he would be the last man from whom I would ask a favor.

What is that I hear about not asking a favor from me? said George Mechlin, coming out on the piazza with Elvira on his arm, having just finished a waltz—I am interested to know why you would not ask it.

You know why, my dear boy. It isn’t exactly the thing to bother you with my disagreeable business.

And why not? And who has a better right? And why should it be a bother to me to help you in any way I can? My father spoke to me about a dismissal of an appeal, and I made a note of it. Let me see, I think I have it in my pocket now,—said George, feeling in his breast pocket for his memorandum book,—yes, here it is,—‘For uncle to write to the attorney general about dismissing the appeal taken by the squatters in the Alamar grant, against Don Mariano’s title, which was approved.’ Is that the correct idea? I only made this note to ask you for further particulars.

"You have it exactly. When I give you the number of the case, it is all that you need say to your uncle. What I want is to have the appeal dismissed, of course, but if the attorney general does not see fit to do so, he can, at least, remand back the case for a new trial. Anything rather than this killing suspense. Killing literally, for while we are waiting to have my title settled, the settlers (I don’t mean to make puns), are killing my cattle by the hundred head, and I cannot stop them."

But are there no laws to protect property in California? George asked.

Yes, some sort of laws, which in my case seem more intended to help the law-breakers than to protect the law-abiding, Don Mariano replied.

How so? Is there no law to punish the thieves who kill your cattle?

"There are some enactments so obviously intended to favor one class of citizens against another class, that to call them laws is an insult to law, but such as they are, we must submit to them. By those laws any man can come to my land, for instance, plant ten acres of grain, without any fence, and then catch my cattle which, seeing the green grass without a fence, will go to eat it. Then he puts them in a ‘corral’ and makes me pay damages and so much per head for keeping them, and costs of legal proceedings and many other trumped up expenses, until for such little fields of grain I may be obliged to pay thousands of dollars. Or, if the grain fields are large enough to bring more money by keeping the cattle away, then the settler shoots the cattle at any time without the least hesitation, only taking care that no one sees him in the act of firing upon the cattle. He might stand behind a bush or tree and fire, but then he is not seen. No one can swear that they saw him actually kill the cattle, and no jury can convict him, for although the dead animals may be there, lying on the ground shot, still no one saw the settler kill them. And so it is all the time. I must pay damages and expenses of litigation, or my cattle get killed almost every day."⁶

But this is infamous. Haven’t you—the cattle-owners—tried to have some law enacted that will protect your property? George asked. It seems to me that could be done.

"It could be done, perhaps, if our positions were reversed, and the Spanish people—‘the natives’⁷—were the planters of the grain fields, and the Americans were the owners of the cattle. But as we, the Spaniards, are the owners of the Spanish—or Mexican—land grants and also the owners of the cattle ranchos, our State legislators will not make any law to protect cattle. They make laws ‘to protect agriculture’ (they say proudly), which means to drive to the wall all owners of cattle ranchos. I am told that at this session of the legislature a law more strict yet will be passed, which will be ostensibly ‘to protect agriculture,’ but in reality to destroy cattle and ruin the native Californians. The agriculture of this State does not require legislative protection. Such pretext is absurd."

I thought that the rights of the Spanish people were protected by our treaty with Mexico, George said.

Mexico did not pay much attention to the future welfare of the children she left to their fate in the hands of a nation which had no sympathies for us, said Doña Josefa, feelingly.⁸

I remember, calmly said Don Mariano, "that when I first read the text of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, I felt a bitter resentment against my people; against Mexico, the mother country, who abandoned us—her children—with so slight a provision of obligatory stipulations for protection. But afterwards, upon mature reflection, I saw that Mexico did as much as could have been reasonably expected at the time. In the very preamble of the treaty the spirit of peace and friendship, which animated both nations, was carefully made manifest. That spirit was to be the foundation of the relations between the conqueror and conquered. How could Mexico have foreseen then that when scarcely half a dozen years should have elapsed the trusted conquerors would, ‘In Congress Assembled,’ pass laws which were to be retroactive upon the defenceless, helpless, conquered people, in order to despoil them? The treaty said that our rights would be the same as those enjoyed by all other American citizens. But, you see, Congress takes very good care not to enact retroactive laws for Americans; laws to take away from American citizens the property which they hold now, already, with a recognized legal title. No, indeed. But they do so quickly enough with us—with us, the Spano-Americans, who were to enjoy equal rights, mind you, according to the treaty of peace. This is what seems to me a breach of faith, which Mexico could neither presuppose nor prevent."

It is nothing else, I am sorry and ashamed to say, George said. I never knew much about the treaty with Mexico, but I never imagined we had acted so badly.

I think but few Americans know or believe to what extent we have been wronged by Congressional action. And truly, I believe that Congress itself did not anticipate the effect of its laws upon us, and how we would be despoiled, we, the conquered people, said Don Mariano, sadly.

It is the duty of law-givers to foresee the effect of the laws they impose upon people, said Doña Josefa.

That I don’t deny, but I fear that the conquered have always but a weak voice, which nobody hears, said Don Mariano. "We have had no one to speak for us. By the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo the American nation pledged its honor to respect our land titles just the same as Mexico would have done. Unfortunately, however, the discovery of gold brought to California the riff-raff of the world,⁹ and with it a horde of land-sharks, all possessing the privilege of voting, and most of them coveting our lands, for which they very quickly began to clamor. There was, and still is, plenty of good government land, which any one can take. But no. The forbidden fruit is the sweetest. They do not want government land. They want the land of the Spanish people, because we ‘have too much,’ they say. So, to win their votes, the votes of the squatters, our representatives in Congress helped to pass laws declaring all lands in California open to pre-emption, as in Louisiana, for instance. Then, as a coating of whitewash to the stain on the nation’s honor, a ‘land commission’ was established to examine land titles. Because, having pledged the national word to respect our rights, it would be an act of despoliation, besides an open violation of pledged honor, to take the lands without some pretext of a legal process. So then, we became obliged to present our titles before the said land commission to be examined and approved or rejected. While these legal proceedings are going on, the squatters locate their claims and raise crops on our lands, which they convert into money to fight our titles. But don’t let me, with my disagreeable subject spoil your dance. Go back to your lancers, and tell Lizzie to excuse me," said Don Mariano.

Lizzie would not excuse him. With the privilege of a future daughter-in-law, she insisted that Don Mariano should be her partner in the lancers, which would be a far pleasanter occupation than to be walking up and down the porch thinking about squatters.

Don Mariano therefore followed Lizzie to their place in the dance. Mercedes sat at the piano to play for them. The other couples took their respective positions.

The well-balanced mind and kindly spirit of Don Mariano soon yielded to the genial influences surrounding him. He would not bring his trouble to mar the pleasure of others. He danced with his children as gaily as the gayest. He insisted that Mr. Mechlin, too, should dance, and this gentleman graciously yielded and led Elvira through a quadrille, protesting that he had not danced for twenty years.

You have not danced because you were sick, but now you are well. Don’t be lazy, said Mrs. Mechlin.

You would be paying to San Diego climate a very poor compliment by refusing to dance now, George added.

That is so, papa. Show us how well you feel, Lizzie said.

I shall have to dance a hornpipe to do that, Mr. Mechlin answered, laughing.

To understand this remark better, the reader must know that Mr. James Mechlin had come to San Diego, four years previously, a living skeleton, not expected to last another winter. He had lost his health by a too close application to business, and when he sought rest and relaxation his constitution seemed permanently undermined. He tried the climate of Florida. He spent several years in Italy and in the south of France, but he felt no better. At last, believing his malady incurable, he returned to his New York home to die. In New York a friend, who also had been an invalid, but whose health had been restored in Southern California, advised him to try the salubrious air of San Diego. With but little hope, and only to please his family, Mr. Mechlin came to San Diego, and his health improved so rapidly that he made up his mind to buy a country place and make San Diego his home. William Mathews heard of this, and offered to sell his place on what Mr. Mechlin thought very moderate terms. A lawyer was employed to pass upon the title, and on his recommendation the purchase was made. Mr. Mechlin had the Mathews house moved back near the barn, and a new and much larger one built. When this was finished the Mechlins moved into it, and Mr. Mechlin devoted himself to cultivating trees and flowers, and his health was bettered every day.¹⁰ This was the compensation to his wife and two daughters for exiling themselves from New York; for it was exile to Caroline and Lizzie to give up their fine house in New York City to come and live on a California rancho.

Soon, however, these two young ladies passed their time more pleasantly, after making the acquaintance of the Alamar family, and soon their acquaintance ripened into friendship, to be made closer by the intended marriage of Gabriel—Don Mariano’s eldest son—to Lizzie. Shortly after, George—Mr. Mechlin’s only son—came on a visit, and when he returned to New York he was already engaged to Elvira, third daughter of Señor Alamar.

Now, George Mechlin was making his second visit to his family. He had found New York so very dull and stupid on his return from California that when Christmas was approaching he told his uncle and aunt—with whom he lived—that he wanted to go and spend Christmas and New Year’s Day with his family in California.

Very well; I wish I could go with you. Give my love to James, and tell him I am delighted at his getting so well, Mr. Lawrence Mechlin said, and George had his leave of absence. Mr. Lawrence Mechlin was president of the bank of which George was cashier, so it was not difficult for him to get the assistant cashier to attend to his duties when he was away, particularly as the assistant cashier himself was George’s most devoted friend. George could have only twelve days in California, but to see Elvira for even so short a time he would have traveled a much longer distance.

Mr. James Mechlin affirmed repeatedly that he owed his improved health to the genial society of the Alamar family as much as to the genial climate of San Diego County. Mr. Mechlin, however, was not the only one who had paid the same tribute to that most delightful family, the most charming of which—the majority vote said—was Don Mariano himself. His nobility of character and great kindness of heart were well known to everybody.

The Alamar family was quite patriarchal in size, if the collateral branches be taken into account, for there were many brothers, nephews and nieces. These, however, lived in the adjoining rancho, and yet another branch in Lower California,¹¹ in Mexico. Don Mariano’s own immediate family was composed of his wife and six children, two sons and four daughters.

All of these, as we have seen, were having a dance. The music was furnished by the young ladies themselves, taking their turn at the piano, assisted by Madam Halier (Mercedes’ French governess), who was always ready to play for the girls to dance. Besides the Mechlins, there were three or four young gentlemen from town, but there were so many Alamares¹² (brothers, nieces and nephews, besides) that the room seemed quite well filled. Such family gatherings were frequent, making the Alamar house very gay and pleasant.

George Mechlin would have liked to prolong his visit, but he could not. He consoled himself looking forward to the ninth of June, when he would come again to make a visit of two months’ duration. On his return East, before renewing his duties at the bank, he went to Washington to see about the dismissal of the appeal. Unfortunately, the attorney general had to absent himself about that time, and the matter being left with the solicitor general, nothing was done. George explained to Don Mariano how the matter was delayed, and his case remained undecided yet for another year longer.

CHAPTER III

PRE-EMPTING¹ UNDER THE LAW

All aboard for San Diego! shouted a voice from a wagon, as it rumbled past Darrell, who walked leisurely with a satchel in his hand, swinging it unconsciously, lost in thought. He looked up and saw that the wagon whence the voice came carried ten or twelve men, sitting on trunks and packages and carpet-bags.² These men Mathews and Gasbang had presented to him, saying that they were settlers already residing at the Alamar rancho, and others who were going down to take up claims, at the same time that he would locate his. Darrell looked at his future neighbors with feelings of anything but pleasure. The broad, vulgar face of Gasbang, with its square jaws, gray beard, closely clipped, but never shaved, his compressed, thin, bloodless lips, his small, pale, restless eyes and flat nose, Darrell soon recognized, though the wagon was going rapidly. Mathews’ visage was equally noticeable for its ugliness, though of a different type; for his face was long and shaved; his nose was pinched and peaked and red; his cheeks were flabby; and his long, oily, dusty, hair dragged over his neck in matted, meshy locks, while a constant frown settled on his brow. As he was broad-shouldered and rather tall, his face seemed made for some other man much weaker than himself. His face looked mean and discontented, while his body seemed strong and self-reliant.

The wagon had arrived and gone away, and the men had walked aboard the boat, when Darrell, still swinging his satchel abstractedly, stood on the wharf looking at the steamer as if not quite resolved to go. He felt no sympathy, no liking, for any of those men with whom he was now associated.

It was different to have Gasbang as his hired man, as before, but now he was not under orders, and was much older. Years, moreover, had not improved his low nature. Darrell had no higher opinion of the others. He was sure these were not the sort of people whom his wife would like to have for neighbors. He felt self-accused and irresolute. A shout from Gasbang, who was observing him from the steamer’s deck, made Darrell look up quickly, ashamed of having betrayed his irresolution. I can return immediately, if things don’t suit me, he thought, walking towards the gang-plank.

Come on. Your luggage is all aboard, I took care of it, Gasbang said, coming to meet him. He snatched Darrell’s satchel, in friendly obsequiousness, to carry it for him. Come along; you’ll be left, said he, and Darrell followed him, half-disgusted at his vulgar officiousness. I got your berth for you. The steamer is so crowded, that men have to be crammed into rooms by the bunch, so you and I and Mathews must room together.

That is all right, said Darrell, with a shiver of disgust, and went to take a seat on deck where he could be alone.

The bustle and hurry of getting off was over at last, and the steamer was furrowing her way through the spacious bay of San Francisco towards the Golden Gate.³ Groups of passengers stood here and there, admiring the beautiful harbor and its surrounding country. Darrell sat alone, fixing his gaze upon the receding verdure of Alameda County. Above that green, undulating line of diminishing hills, which seemed to fly from him, Darrell could see plainly one face, one form, beautiful to him as none other could be, the face and form of his wife, his beloved Mary. This was the first time he had ever left her for any longer time than a two days’ absence, since they were married. Now he might be