“Who knows, Miss?” Sarah replied: “least said is soonest mended. If you please, Miss, who is he? Where does he bide? Where does he come from? Does he know Hardies?”
“I should think not. Why?”
“Because I'm much mistaken if he doesn't.” Then putting on a stolid look, she asked, “Does he know your papa?”
“Oh no, Sarah. How should he?”
“There now,” said Sarah; “Miss, you are all in the dark about this old man: I'll tell you something; I took him out of the way of Jane's temper when she began a dishing up, and I had him into the parlour for a minute; and in course there he sees the picture of your poor papa hung up. Miss, if you'll believe me, the moment he claps eyes on that there picture, he halloes out, and out goes his two hands like this here. 'It's him!' says he; 'it's him!' and stares at the picture like a stuck pig. Forgot I was close behind him, I do believe. 'She's his daughter,' says he, in a whisper, a curious whisper; seemed to come out of his stomack. 'What's the matter now?' says I, just so. He gave a great start, as if my speaking had wakened him from a dream, and says he, 'nothing,' as quiet as a lamb. 'Nothing isn't much,' says I, just so. 'It usedn't to be anything at all when I was your age,' says he, sneering. But I paid him a good coin: says I, 'Old man, where you comes from do the folks use to start and hallo out and cry “It's him! she's his daughter!” and fling their two arms abroad like a wiumdmill in March, and all for—nothing?' So at that he changed as white as my smock, and fell all of a tremble. However, at dinner he perks up, and drew that poor simple Jane out a good one. But he didn't look towards me much, which I set opposite to watch my lord.”
“Sarah,” said Julia, “this is really curious, mysterious; you are a good, watchful, faithful girl; and, to tell the truth, I sometimes fancy I have seen Mr. Barkington's face. However, I will solve this little mystery to-morrow; for I will ask him: thank you, Sarah.”
On Monday she called on Mr. Barkington to solve the mystery. But, instead of solving, her visit thickened it: for Mr. Barkington was gone bag and baggage. When Edward was told of this business, he thought it remarkable, and regretted he had not seen the old man.
So do I; for it is my belief Edward would have recognised him.
DAVID DODD.
The history of a man is the history of his mind. And that is why you have heard so little of late about the simplest, noblest, and most unfortunate of all my personages. Insanity is as various as eccentricity. I have spared the kind-hearted reader some of David's vagaries. However, when we parted with him, he had settled into that strange phase of lunacy, in which the distant past seems nearly obliterated, and memory exists, but revolves in a narrow round of things present: this was accompanied with a positive illusion, to wit, a fixed idea that he was an able seaman: and, as usual, what mental power he retained came out strongest in support of this idea. All this was marked by a bodily agility somewhat more than natural in a man of his age. Owing to the wind astern, he was enabled to run into Portsmouth before the steam-tug came up with him: and he did run into port, not because he feared pursuit, but because he was desperately hungry; and he had no suicidal tendencies whatever.