Questioning Maria further, she confessed that on the day Mr. George disappeared, she received from him a passionate love-letter. She had answered him curtly. Yes,—she certainly had told him what she thought of his impertinence. "Of course, I am distressed, but what could I do," said the poor child. "You know my brother! Richard would have been enraged. I had to settle him once for all to save trouble."
I went immediately to Mrs. Baird with my information. She, too, had become anxious at the sudden disappearance of the young naturalist. He had not been seen at the Institution, and investigation revealed the fact that he had not occupied his rooms. Professor Baird was deeply concerned, and a vigorous search was made for the missing man.
Upon returning from my walk that evening, I found a note on my table from Mrs. Baird. The runaway had been found. It would be unnecessary to drag the river or notify the police. He was discovered in the upper chamber of an humble lodging-house, very limp and penitent, but "clothed and in his right mind." He had not been drinking, he had not been in the river. I never knew what Professor Baird did to him—pulled him out of bed, very likely, and shook him into his senses. So we lost Mr. George (whose surname I dare not reveal), and he was doubtless mightily strengthened in his opinion of women—not to be understood by him and not, by any means, comparable to fishes.
Perhaps I should not leave the dramatis personæ of our boarding-house "in the air." Before I left Mrs. Wise, the baron was safely moored into harbor by the tall young lady from New York. The government clerk had openly insulted the French count, and it was supposed a challenge had passed between them. Evidently nothing had come of it. If they fought, it was a bloodless battle. The exquisite Miss Vernon had reappeared, thinner, paler, but radiant and beautiful exceedingly. Miss Dick was puzzled. Perhaps the girl had "gotten over it," like a sensible woman. Perhaps she had not been ill at all—only hysterical. It was not impossible she might have feigned illness "to bring him around." These were some of the solutions of the problem that occurred to Miss Dick.
I could have enlightened her. One evening, Dr. McNalty, whom I knew but slightly, spoke to me in the hall. He had a soft white parcel in his hand and seemed embarrassed and agitated. He begged me to do him a great kindness—would I see Miss Vernon—not send a messenger, see her myself and give her some camellias from him. Possibly there might be some message from her. He would await my return.
Would I? I flew on the wings of hope and keen interest. I comprehended the situation. Of course there had been a misunderstanding. Possibly his letters had been returned and unopened. Only a desperate necessity could have nerved him to appeal to me—almost a stranger. I rose to the occasion, and when I was admitted to Miss Vernon's room, I was prepared to be an eloquent advocate, should circumstances encourage and justify me.
When I returned to Dr. McNalty, I bore a message. She had laid the camellias against her lovely cheek and said, "Tell him his flowers are whispering to me."
I hope my reader will appreciate my reticence in ending this little story just here. If, as Talleyrand declared, "a man who suppresses a bon mot deserves canonization," is there no nimbus for the woman who, for truth's sake, suppresses the dénouement of a love story? The temptation is great to amplify a little, embroider a little—but then I should have to reckon with my conscience, with the certainty of being worsted.
As a matter of fact, I know only this of the young woman I am constrained to call Miss Vernon. Her true name was one well and honorably known in history. She was the most beautiful of all dark-eyed women I have ever known—of course the blue-eyed angels are exceptional—and her manners and attire were as elegant as her person. She wore rich velvet, then much in vogue, and only one jewel:—
"On her fair breast a sparkling cross she wore