Disappeared

Yes, I can tell you the story of my dear old friend Bayle; no one better. Some of my friends here may have heard it before, but it will bear hearing again. I can’t say I’m proud to say it, because it’s too sad an ending, as far as he was concerned, poor fellow, though I myself had a lucky escape.

James Bayle was a very peculiar man. I don’t think anyone understood him except myself. He was certainly more open with me than with any of his other friends or acquaintances. It was three years ago, in November, when he came up to London to stay with me, in this very house. He used to go out on long walks by himself every day, and I knew his object, for he had confided to me that he was going to marry a young girl somewhat below him in station, and he was looking for a house in London, as he intended to work hard on two or three journals, to the staff of which he had long been attached.

The sort of house that he looked for, was, as you may believe, not a very dear one. He naturally wished for a very quiet situation; and as he was a man who had always lived in the country, and was very fond of flowers, he said he would put up with any inconvenience as long as he could have a piece of ground to himself. He told me the sort of a house he required, and I told him the direction in which he would most probably find one. It was one Wednesday, I remember, four days after he had been with us, that he went out rather earlier than usual. We never expected him to return very early; but when the dinner bell rang, and we found he had not come in, we felt a little uneasy. He was a very shy man, as you know, and very particular; the last thing he would be likely to do was to be purposely late for dinner, without giving any warning—We waited twenty minutes, and then sat down without him. He never came back at all that night, nor the next day, nor the day after that; in fact, as you all know, he never came… Read More