Bitterly chagrined, he left the house and went down to the sea to pace the yellow sands for an hour, brooding bitterly over his sorrow.
With what sanguine hopes he had left New York this morning, expecting to find Daisie bright and beautiful as ever, and believing that it might not be hard to win her love at last, now that he was well and strong again.
But to see her stricken so—her beauty faded, her golden glory of tresses shorn away, her life ebbing out, it seemed, so fast. Oh, it was cruel, unbearable.
The wish came to him that he had never seen the fair face that he had determined to make his own in spite of opposing obstacles.
“She was not for me—Heaven never meant it so—she will die to punish me for my masterful will,” he groaned to himself, in passionate rebellion against his untoward fate.
He went back to the house, and they told him she had been lying quietly for some time, almost ever since he went out.
He went in to look at her, to press a tender kiss on her damp, white brow; but again she became restless, tossing wildly, and calling:
“Dallas! Dallas! Dallas!”
“It is quite evident that your presence disturbs her, sir, so you had better go to bed and rest. You can do no good here,” the nurse said candidly.
Mrs. Bell led him to a quiet chamber, and begged him to retire.