“It’s a real tough proposition,” she said slowly, and with all the biting emphasis she could fling into the words. “It’s so tough I feel like telling Booker the things a girl ’ud hate to say. The block is worth ten thousand dollars on the market to-day, which means eight thousand dollars to him, and he wants to hand you two thousand dollars for it. Are you going to take the money or starve—which is Booker’s pleasant alternative? I guess we need to decide right away.”
“Ther’s no need for a decision on those figgers, Miss Claire,” Jake said quickly, his usually impassive face flushing under the sting of this beautiful girl’s words.
“How d’you mean?”
Claire’s demand came sharply. It came in that startled fashion which suggested apprehension lest Booker had withdrawn even his usurious offer.
Jake’s flush had faded out. He stood just within the doorway, a curiously ungainly figure in his simple city tweed suit which seemed to belong to another world than that of this primitive log home built by folks who had lived their lives in the golden wilderness of the North. His fine eyes were smiling kindly in the manner of one who feels himself to be something in the nature of a ministering, beneficent angel rather than the executioner of the will of an unscrupulous usurer.
“Why, he’s reconsidered his proposal,” he said quietly, his smile communicating itself to the rest of his face. “I guess he’s sounded the market and feels he wants to treat you right. Maybe he didn’t just remember the exact position of that swell corner block when he made his offer to you yesterday. He knows about it now,” he went on drily, “and fancies handing you eight thousand dollars for complete reversion. I kind of think that’s a square deal, Mrs. Carver. Here’s his ‘brief’ to that effect and the cash, in dollars, is enclosed. You’ll just need to sign the deed I’ll hand you as a preliminary, and the transfer can go through next time you’re along in town. Do you feel like closing?”
There was much more in the man’s simply spoken statement than he realised. There was much more, too, in his manner, and somehow the unexpectedness of Booker’s change of attitude held Claire silent while she regarded the smiling face of the man who brought the pleasant news.
Rebecca Carver’s interest, however, had fallen back before the mother grief which had only been deposed from its supremacy for a few moments. She made no attempt to reply in any form, while her gaze was turned once more to her stove.
Claire suddenly urged her.
“You’ll accept, mother?” she said quickly, and the other nodded.