Volume I Part 21 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sociates, 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!”
”Tiresome is no name for it! And I don't know a stronger proof of old Peter's love for his son's memory, than that, for the sake of hearing about him, he can sit and listen to the 'expedition.'”
There was a half-unconscious mimicry in the way he gave the last word that showed how the Major's accents had eaten their way into his sensibilities.
”Your portrait of this Major is not tempting,” said Stapylton, smiling.
”Why would it? He's eighteen or twenty years in the neighborhood, and I never heard that he said a kind word or did a generous act by any one.
But I get cross if I talk of him. Where are you going this morning? Will you come up to the Long Callows and look at the yearlings? The Admiral is very proud of his young stock, and he thinks he has some of the best bone and blood in Ireland there at this moment.”
”Thanks, no; I have some notion of a long walk this morning. I take shame to myself for having seen so little of the country here since I came that I mean to repair my fault and go off on a sort of voyage of discovery.”
”Follow the river from Brown's Barn down to Inistioge, and if you ever saw anything prettier I'm a Scotchman.” And with this appalling alternative, Mr. Bushe walked away, and left the other to his own guidance.
Perhaps Stapylton is not the companion my reader would care to stroll with, even along the gra.s.sy path beside that laughing river, with spray-like larches bending overhead, and tender water-lilies streaming, like pennants, in the fast-running current. It may be that he or she would prefer some one more impressionable to the woodland beauty of the spot, and more disposed to enjoy the tranquil loveliness around him; for it is true the swarthy soldier strode on, little heeding the picturesque effects which made every succeeding reach of the river a subject for a painter. He was bent on finding out where M'Cormick lived, and on making the acquaintance of that bland individual.
”That's the Major's, and there's himself,” said a countryman, as he pointed to a very shabbily dressed old man hoeing his cabbages in a dilapidated bit of garden-ground, but who was so absorbed in his occupation as not to notice the approach of a stranger.
”Am I taking too great a liberty,” said Stapylton, as he raised his hat, ”if I ask leave to follow the river path through this lovely spot?”
”Eh--what?--how did you come? You didn't pa.s.s round by the young wheat, eh?” asked M'Cormick, in his most querulous voice.
”I came along by the margin of the river.”
”That's just it!” broke in the other. ”There's no keeping them out that way. But I 'll have a dog as sure as my name is Dan. I'll have a bull-terrier that'll tackle the first of you that's trespa.s.sing there.”
”I fancy I'm addressing Major M'Cormick,” said Stapylton, never noticing this rude speech; ”and if so, I will ask him to accord me the privilege of a brother-soldier, and let me make myself known to him,--Captain Stapylton, of the Prince's Hussars.”
”By the wars!” muttered old Dan; the exclamation being a favorite one with him to express astonishment at any startling event. Then recovering himself, he added, ”I think I heard there were three or four of ye stopping up there at Cobham; but I never go out myself anywhere. I live very retired down here.”
”I am not surprised at that. When an old soldier can nestle down in a lovely nook like this, he has very little to regret of what the world is busy about outside it.”
”And they are all ruining themselves, besides,” said M'Cormick, with one of his malicious grins. ”There's not a man in this county is n't mortgaged over head and ears. I can count them all on my fingers for you, and tell what they have to live on.”
”You amaze me,” said Stapylton, with a show of interest