THE QUARREL.

On the evening of the 12th, orders were received for the German brigade and three squadrons of our regiment to pursue the French upon the Terracinthe road by daybreak on the following morning.

I was busily occupied in my preparations for a hurried march when Mike came up to say that an officer desired to speak with me; and the moment after Captain Hammersley appeared. A sudden flush colored his pale and sickly features, as he held out his hand and said,—

“I’ve come to wish you joy, O’Malley. I just this instant heard of your promotion. I am sincerely glad of it; pray tell me the whole affair.”

“That is the very thing I am unable to do. I have some very vague, indistinct remembrance of warding off a sabre-cut from the head of a wounded and unhorsed officer in the mÊlÉe of yesterday, but more I know not. In fact, it was my first duty under fire. I’ve a tolerably clear recollection of all the events of the morning, but the word ‘Charge!’ once given, I remember very little more. But you, where have you been? How have we not met before?”

“I’ve exchanged into a heavy dragoon regiment, and am now employed upon the staff.”

“You are aware that I have letters for you?”

“Power hinted, I think, something of the kind. I saw him very hurriedly.”

These words were spoken with an effort at nonchalance that evidently cost him much.

As for me, my agitation was scarcely less, as fumbling for some seconds in my portmanteau, I drew forth the long destined packet. As I placed it in his hands, he grew deadly pale, and a slight spasmodic twitch in his upper lip bespoke some unnatural struggle. He broke the seal suddenly, and as he did so, the morocco case of a miniature fell upon the ground; his eyes ran rapidly across the letter; the livid color of his lips as the blood forced itself to them added to the corpse-like hue of his countenance.

“You, probably, are aware of the contents of this letter, Mr. O’Malley,” said he, in an altered voice, whose tones, half in anger, half in suppressed irony, cut to my very heart.

“I am in complete ignorance of them,” said I, calmly.

“Indeed, sir!” replied he, with a sarcastic curl of his mouth as he spoke. “Then, perhaps, you will tell me, too, that your very success is a secret to you—”

“I’m really not aware—”

“You think, probably, sir, that the pastime is an amusing one, to interfere where the affections of others are concerned. I’ve heard of you, sir. Your conduct at Lisbon is known to me; and though Captain Trevyllian may bear—”

“Stop, Captain Hammersley!” said I, with a tremendous effort to be calm,—“stop! You have said enough, quite enough, to convince me of what your object was in seeking me here to-day. You shall not be disappointed. I trust that assurance will save you from any further display of temper.”

“I thank you, most humbly I thank you for the quickness of your apprehension; and I shall now take my leave. Good-evening, Mr. O’Malley. I wish you much joy; you have my very fullest congratulations upon all your good fortune.”

The sneering emphasis the last words were spoken with remained fixed in my mind long after he took his departure; and, indeed, so completely did the whole seem like a dream to me that were it not for the fragments of the miniature that lay upon the ground where he had crushed them with his heel, I could scarcely credit myself that I was awake.

My first impulse was to seek Power, upon whose judgment and discretion I could with confidence rely.

I had not long to wait; for scarcely had I thrown my cloak around me, when he rode up. He had just seen, Hammersley, and learned something of our interview.

“Why, Charley, my dear fellow, what is this? How have you treated poor Hammersley?”

“Treated him! Say, rather, how has he treated me!”

I here entered into a short but accurate account of our meeting, during which Power listened with great composure; while I could perceive, from the questions he asked, that some very different impression had been previously made upon his mind.

“And this was all that passed?”

“All.”

“But what of the business at Lisbon?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, he speaks,—he has heard some foolish account of your having made some ridiculous speech there about your successful rivalry of him in Ireland. Lucy Dashwood, I suppose, is referred to. Some one has been good-natured enough to repeat the thing to him.”

“But it never occurred. I never did.”

“Are you sure, Charley?”

“I am sure. I know I never did.”

“The poor fellow! He has been duped. Come, Charley, you must not take it ill. Poor Hammersley has never recovered a sabre-wound he received some months since upon the head; his intellect is really affected by it. Leave it all to me. Promise not to leave your quarters till I return, and I’ll put everything right again.”

I gave the required pledge; while Power, springing into the saddle, left me to my own reflections.

My frame of mind as Power left me was by no means an enviable one. A quarrel is rarely a happy incident in a man’s life, still less is it so when the difference arises with one we are disposed to like and respect. Such was Hammersley. His manly, straightforward character had won my esteem and regard, and it was with no common scrutiny I taxed my memory to think what could have given rise to the impression he labored under of my having injured him. His chance mention of Trevyllian suggested to me some suspicion that his dislike of me, wherefore arising I knew not, might have its share in the matter; and in this state of doubt and uncertainty I paced impatiently up and down, anxiously watching for Power’s return in the hope of at length getting some real insight into the difficulty.

My patience was fast ebbing, Power had been absent above an hour, and no appearance of him could I detect, when suddenly the tramp of a horse came rapidly up the hill. I looked out and saw a rider coming forward at a very fast pace. Before I had time for even a guess as to who it was, he drew up, and I recognized Captain Trevyllian. There was a certain look of easy impertinence and half-smiling satisfaction about his features I had never seen before, as he touched his cap in salute, and said,—

“May I have the honor of a few words’ conversation with you?”

I bowed silently, while he dismounted, and passing his bridle beneath his arm, walked on beside me.

“My friend Captain Hammersley has commissioned me to wait upon you about this unpleasant affair—”

“I beg pardon for the interruption, Captain Trevyllian, but as I have yet to learn to what you or your friend alludes, perhaps it may facilitate matters if you will explicitly state your meaning.”

He grew crimson on the cheek as I said this, while, with a voice perfectly unmoved, he continued,—

“I am not sufficiently in my friend’s confidence to know the whole of the affair in question, nor have I his permission to enter into any of it, he probably presuming, as I certainly did myself, that your sense of honor would have deemed further parley and discussion both unnecessary and unseasonable.”

“In fact, then, if I understand, it is expected that I should meet Captain Hammersley for some reason unknown—”

“He certainly desires a meeting with you,” was the dry reply.

“And as certainly I shall not give it, before understanding upon what grounds.”

“And such I am to report as your answer?” said he, looking at me at the moment with an expression of ill-repressed triumph as he spoke.

There was something in these few words, as well as in the tone in which they were spoken, that sunk deeply in my heart. Was it that by some trick of diplomacy he was endeavoring to compromise my honor and character? Was it possible that my refusal might be construed into any other than the real cause? I was too young, too inexperienced in the world to decide the question for myself, and no time was allowed me to seek another’s counsel. What a trying moment was that for me; my temples throbbed, my heart beat almost audibly, and I stood afraid to speak; dreading on the one hand lest my compliance might involve me in an act to embitter my life forever, and fearful on the other, that my refusal might be reported as a trait of cowardice.

He saw, he read my difficulty at a glance, and with a smile of most supercilious expression, repeated coolly his former question. In an instant all thought of Hammersley was forgotten. I remembered no more. I saw him before me, he who had, since my first meeting, continually contrived to pass some inappreciable slight upon me. My eyes flashed, my hands tingled with ill-repressed rage, as I said,—

“With Captain Hammersley I am conscious of no quarrel, nor have I ever shown by any act or look an intention to provoke one. Indeed, such demonstrations are not always successful; there are persons most rigidly scrupulous for a friend’s honor, little disposed to guard their own.”

“You mistake,” said he, interrupting me, as I spoke these words with a look as insulting as I could make it,—“you mistake. I have sworn a solemn oath never to send a challenge.”

The emphasis upon the word “send,” explained fully his meaning, when I said,—

“But you will not decline—”

“Most certainly not,” said he, again interrupting, while with sparkling eye and elated look he drew himself up to his full height. “Your friend is—”

“Captain Power; and yours—”

“Sir Harry Beaufort. I may observe that, as the troops are in marching order, the matter had better not be delayed.”

“There shall be none on my part.”

“Nor mine!” said he, as with a low bow and a look of most ineffable triumph, he sprang into his saddle; then, “Au revoir, Mr. O’Malley,” said he, gathering up his reins. “Beaufort is on the staff, and quartered at Oporto.” So saying, he cantered easily down the slope, and once more I was alone.