“Some would say he was; my opinion is, that he bears up wonderfully. Of course, to me, he never makes any mention of the past; but while my father lived, he would frequently talk to him over bygones, and liked nothing better than to speak of his son, Mad George as they called him, and tell all his wildest exploits and most harebrained achievements. But you have served yourself in India. Have you never heard of George Barrington?” Stapylton shook his head, and dryly added that India was very large, and that even in one Presidency a man might never hear what went on in another. “Well, this fellow made noise enough to be heard even over here. He married a native woman, and he either shook off his English allegiance, or was suspected of doing so. At all events, he got himself into trouble that finished him. It's a long complicated story, that I have never heard correctly. The upshot was, however, old Barrington was sold out stick and stone, and if it was n't for the ale-house he might starve.” “And his former friends and associates, do they rally round him and cheer him?” “Not a great deal. Perhaps, however, that's as much his fault as theirs. He is very proud, and very quick to resent anything like consideration for his changed condition. Sir Charles would have him up here,--he has tried it scores of times, but all in vain; and now he is left to two or three of his neighbors, the doctor and an old half-pay major, who lives on the river, and I believe really he never sees any one else. Old M'Cormick knew George Barrington well; not that they were friends,--two men less alike never lived; but that's enough to make poor Peter fond of talking to him, and telling all about some lawsuits George left him for a legacy.” “This Major that you speak of, does he visit here? I don't remember to have seen him.” “M'Cormick!” said the other, laughing. “No, he 's a miserly old fellow that has n't a coat fit to go out in, and he's no loss to any one. It's as much as old Peter Barrington can do to bear his shabby ways, and his cranky temper, but he puts up with everything because he knew his son George. That's quite enough for old Peter; and if you were to go over to the cottage, and say, 'I met your son up in Bombay or Madras; we were quartered together at Ram-something-or-other,' he 'd tell you the place was your own, to stop at as long as you liked, and your home for life.” “Indeed!” said Stapylton, affecting to feel interested, while he followed out the course of his own thoughts. “Not that the Major could do even that much!” continued Bushe, who now believed that he had found an eager listener. “There was only one thing in this world he'd like to talk about,--Walcheren. Go how or when you liked, or where or for what,--no matter, it was Walcheren you 'd get, and nothing else.” “Somewhat tiresome this, I take it!”