He paused, and she answered steadily—
“Unless I’m prepared to give up my career, my position, my friends, even, all for you? Is that what you mean?”
She said this with raised eyebrows, as if expecting him to receive her speech with a denial; but he took up the challenge at once.
“Yes,” he said, “that, I suppose, is what I do mean. I don’t think you ought to encourage a man to the extent you are encouraging that young Van Santen, and to try to encourage me—at the same time. It doesn’t matter when a girl plays that sort of game with men who don’t really care for her. But this Yankee fellow appears to be in earnest, and by Jove! you can’t pretend to know that I’m not. You ought to make up your mind, and throw over the one, and stick to the other.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the difficulty of my position, Mr. Buckland.”
“I don’t suppose I do. How can I? You don’t take me into your confidence. And I’m ready to do without that. All I ask is that you should decide for your own happiness. If you think you will be happier with Van Santen for a husband than with me, why marry him and be happy; but I don’t believe, somehow, that you do think that. I don’t think you would send for me if you had nothing but that to tell me. Come, Rachel, why did you send for me? What had you to tell me?”
Miss Davison’s handsome face quivered.
“I almost wish,” she said, “now, that I hadn’t sent for you; but—” Suddenly her face changed, and he saw a look of intense pain pass over it. “I couldn’t bear that—you should think—I didn’t care. And—only I don’t want you to ask me why—I didn’t dare to offend Denver by letting him think I cared for you.”
“Still, you need not have turned away from me as you did, without a word. You might have given me a word, a smile, a look.”
Rachel’s breath came quickly, her face softened, her eyes grew tender, and she whispered—