CHAPTER XII
SHEBA SAYS "PERHAPS"
Obeying the orders of the general in command, Peter took himself tohis den with the excuse that he had blue-prints to work over. PresentlyDiane said she thought she heard one of the children crying and leftto investigate.
The Scotchman strode to the fireplace and stood looking down into theglowing coals. He seemed in no hurry to break the silence and Shebaglanced at his strong, brooding face a little apprehensively. Herexcitement showed in the color that was beating into her cheeks. Sheknew of only one subject that would call for so formal a private talkbetween her and Macdonald, and any discussion of this she would verymuch have liked to postpone.
He turned from the fire to Sheba. It was characteristic of him that heplunged straight at what he wanted to say.
"I've asked to see you alone, Miss O'Neill, because I want to make aconfession and restitution--to begin with," he told her abruptly.
She had a sense of suddenly stilled pulses. "That sounds very serious."The young woman smiled faintly.
His face of chiseled granite masked all emotion. It kept under lock andkey the insurgent impulses that moved him when he looked into the sloeeyes charged with reserve. Back of them, he felt, was the mystery ofpurity, of maidenhood. He longed to know her better, to find out andto appropriate for himself the woman that lay behind the fine veil offlesh. She seemed to him delicate as a flame and as vivid. There wouldcome a day when her innocent, passional nature would respond to the loveof a man as a waiting harp does to skillful fingers.
"My story goes away back to the Klondike days. I told you that I knewyour father on Frenchman Creek, but I didn't say much about knowing himon Bonanza."
"Mr. Strong has told me something about the days on Bonanza, and I knewyou would tell me more some day--when you wanted to speak about it." Shewas seated in a low chair and the white throat lifted toward him wasround as that of a bird.
"Your father was among the first of those who stampeded to Bonanza. Heand Strong took up a claim together. I bought out the interest of yourfather."
"You told me that."
His masterful eyes fastened to hers. "I didn't tell you that I tookadvantage of him. He was--not well. I used that against him in thebargaining. He wanted ready money, and I tempted him."
"Do you mean that you--wronged him?"
"Yes. I cheated him." He was resolved to gloss over nothing, to offer noexcuses. "I didn't know there was gold on his claim, but I had what wecall a hunch. I took his claim without giving value received."
It was her turn now to look into the fire and think. From the lettersof her father, from talks with old-timers she knew how in the stampedesevery man's hand had been for himself, how keen-edged had been thepassion for gold, a veritable lust that corroded the souls of men.
"But--I don't understand." Her brave, steady eyes looked directly intothose of Macdonald. "If he felt you had--done him a wrong--why did hecome to you when he was ill?"
"He was coming to demand justice of me. On the way he suffered exposureand caught pneumonia. The word reached us, and Strong and I brought himto our cabin."
"You faced a blizzard to bring him in. Mr. Strong told me how you riskedyour life by carrying him through the storm--how you wouldn't give upand leave him, though you were weak and staggering yourself. He says itwas a miracle you ever got through."
The big mine-owner brushed this aside as of no importance. "We don'tleave sick men to die in a blizzard up North. But that's not the point."
"I think it has a bearing on the matter--that you saved him from theblizzard--and took him in--and nursed him like a brother till he died."
"I'm not heartless," said Macdonald impatiently. "Of course I did that.I had to do it. I couldn't do less."
"Or more," she suggested. "You may have made a hard bargain with him,but you wiped that out later."
"That's just what I didn't do. Don't think my conscience is troublingme. I'm not such a mush-brained fool. If it had not been for you I wouldnever have thought of it again. But you are his daughter. What I cheatedhim out of belongs to you--and you are my friend."
"Don't use that word about what you did, please. He wasn't a child. Ifyou got the best of him in a bargain, I don't think father would thinkof it that way."
The difficulty was that he could not tell her the truth about herfather's weakness for drink and how he had played upon it. He bridgedall explanations and passed to the thing he meant to do in reparation.
"The money I cleaned up from that claim belongs to you, Miss O'Neill.You will oblige me by taking it."
From his pocket he took a folded paper and handed it to her. Shebaopened it doubtfully. The paper contained a typewritten statement andto it was attached a check by means of a clip. The check was made outto her and signed by Colby Macdonald. The amount it called for was onehundred and eighty-three thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars.
"Oh, I couldn't take this, Mr. Macdonald--I couldn't. It doesn't belongto me," she cried.
"It belongs to you--and you're going to take it."
"I wouldn't know what to do with so much."
"The bank will take care of it for you until you decide. So that'ssettled." He passed definitely from the subject. "There's something elseI want to say to you, Miss O'Neill."
Some change in his voice warned her. The girl slanted a quick, shyglance at him.
"I want to know if you'll marry me, Miss O'Neill," he shot at herabruptly. Then, without giving her time to answer, he pushed on:"I'm older than you--by twenty-five years. Always I've lived on thefrontiers. I've had to take the world by the throat and shake from itwhat I wanted. So I've grown hard and willful. All the sweet, finethings of life I've missed. But with you beside me I'm not too old tofind them yet--if you'll show me the way, Sheba."
A wave of color swept into her face, but her eyes never faltered fromhis. "I'm not quite sure," she said in a low voice.
"You mean--whether you love me?"
She nodded. "I--admire you more than any man I ever met. You are a greatman, strong and powerful,--and I am so insignificant beside you. I--amdrawn to you--so much. But--I am not sure."
Afterward, when she thought of it, Sheba wondered at the direct ease ofhis proposal. In the romances she had read, men were shy and embarrassedand fearful of the issue. But Colby Macdonald had known what he wantedto say and had said it as coolly and as readily as if it had been abusiness detail. She was the one that had blushed and stammered andfound a difficulty in expressing herself.
"I'm going away for two days. Perhaps when I come back you will know,Sheba. Take your time. Marriage is serious business. I want you toremember that my life has been very different from yours. You'll hearall sorts of things about me. Some of them are true. There is thisdifference between a man and a good woman. He fights and falls andfights again and wins. But a good woman is finer. She has never knownthe failure that drags one through slime and mud. Her goodness is bornin her; she doesn't have to fight for it."
The girl smiled a little tremulously. "Doesn't she? We're not all angel,you know."
"I hope you're not. There will need to be a lot of the human in you tomake allowances for Colby Macdonald," he replied with an answeringsmile.
When he said good-bye it was with a warm, strong handshake.
"I'll be back in two days. Perhaps you'll have good news for me then,"he suggested.
The dark, silken lashes of her eyes lifted shyly to meet his.
"Perhaps," she said.