“Perhaps,” said Mr. Tudor, breaking the silence, “there was a previous lover in the case?”
“I am sure there was not!” said Rex, eagerly.
Still the idea was new to him. He adored Daisy with a mad, idolatrous adoration, almost amounting to worship, and a love so intense is susceptible to the poisonous breath of jealousy, and jealousy ran in Rex’s veins. He could not endure the thought of Daisy’s––his Daisy’s––eyes brightening or her cheek flushing at the approach of a rival––that fair, flower-like face, sweet and innocent as a child’s––Daisy, whom he so madly loved.
“Well,” said Mr. Tudor, as Rex arose to depart, “I will do all I can for you. Leave your address, please, in case I should wish to communicate with you.”
“I think I shall go back to Allendale, remaining there at least a month or so. I have a strong conviction Daisy might come back, or at least write to me there.”
Mr. Tudor jotted down the address, feeling actually sorry for the handsome young husband clinging to such a frail straw of hope. In his own mind, long before Rex had concluded his story, he had settled his opinion––that from some cause the young wife had fled from him with some rival, bitterly repenting her mad, hasty marriage.
“I have great faith in your acknowledged ability,” said Rex, grasping Mr. Tudor’s outstretched hand. “I shall rest my hopes upon your finding Daisy. I can not, will not, believe she is false. I would as soon think of the light of heaven playing me false as my sweet little love!”
The dark mantle of night had folded its dusky wings over the inmates of the seminary. All the lights were out in the young ladies’ rooms––as the nine-o’clock call, “All lights out!” had been called some ten minutes before––all the lights save one, flickering, dim, and uncertain, from Daisy’s window.