The Triumph of John Kars. Cullum Ridgwell
unconditional.
Father José had known the contents of the will beforehand. In fact, he had helped his old friend in his decisions. Nor had Alec's position been decided upon without his advice. These two men understood the boy too well to chance helping to spoil his life by an ample, unearned provision. They knew the weak streak in his character, and had decided to give him a chance, by the process of time, to obtain that balance which might befit him for the responsibility of a big commercial enterprise.
When Murray learned the position of affairs he offered no comment. Without demur he concurred in every proposition set before him by Father José. He rendered the little man every assistance in his power in the work which had been so suddenly thrust upon his shoulders.
So it was that more than one-half of the winter was passed in delving into the accounts of the enterprise Allan and his partner had built up, while the other, the second half, was spent by Mrs. Mowbray and Father José at Leaping Horse, where the ponderous legal machinery was set in motion for the final settlement of the estate.
For Father José the work was not without its compensations. His grief at Allan's dreadful end had been almost overwhelming, and the work in which he found himself involved had come as a help at the moment it was most needed. Then there was Ailsa, and Jessie, and Alec. His work helped to keep him from becoming a daily witness of their terrible distress. Furthermore, there were surprises for him in the pages of the great ledgers at the Fort. Surprises of such a nature that he began to wonder if he were still living in the days of miracles, or if he were simply the victim of hallucination.
He found that Allan was rich, rich beyond his most exaggerated dreams. He found that this obscure fur post carried on a wealth of trade which might have been the envy of a corporation a hundred times its size. He found that for years a stream of wealth had been pouring into the coffers at the post in an ever-growing tide. He found that seven-tenths of it was Allan's, and that Murray McTavish considered himself an amply prosperous man on the remaining three-tenths.
Where did it all come from? How did it come about? He expressed no wonder to anybody. He gave no outward sign of his astonishment. There was a secret. There must be a secret. But the books yielded up no secret. Only the broad increasing tide of a trade which coincided with the results. But he felt for all their simple, indisputable figures, they concealed in their pages a cleverly hidden secret, a profound secret, which must alone have been shared by the partners, and possibly Ailsa Mowbray. Allan Mowbray's fortune, apart from the business, closely approximated half a million dollars. It was incredible. It was so stupendous as to leave the simple little priest quite overwhelmed.
However, with due regard for his friendship, he spared himself nothing. Nothing was neglected. Nothing was left undone in his stewardship. And so, within seven months of Allan's disastrous end, he found himself once more free to turn to the simple cares of the living in his administration of the Mission on Snake River, which was the sum total of his life's ambition and work.
His duty to the dead was done. And it seemed to his plain thinking mind that the episode should have been closed forever. But it was not. Moreover, he knew it was not. How he knew was by no means clear. Somehow he felt that the end was far off, somewhere in the dim future. Somehow he felt that he was only at the beginning of things. A secret lay concealed under his friend's great wealth, and the thought of it haunted him. It warned him, too, and left him pondering deeply. However, he did not talk, not even to his friend's widow.
The round form of Murray McTavish filled the office chair to overflowing. For a man of his energy and capacity, for a man so perfectly equipped, mentally, and in spirit, for the fierce battle of the northern latitudes, it was a grotesque freak of Nature that his form, so literally corpulent, should be so inadequate. However, there it was. And Nature, seeming to realize the anachronism, had done her best to repair her blunder. If he were laboring under a superfluity of adipose, she had equipped him with muscles of steel and lungs of tremendous expansion, a fierce courage, and nerves of a tempering such as she rarely bestowed.
He was smoking a strong cigar and reading a letter in a decided handwriting. It was a man's letter, and it was of a business nature. Yet though it entailed profit for its recipient it seemed to inspire no satisfaction.
The big eyes were a shade wider than usual. Their glowing depths burned more fiercely. He was stirred, and the secret of his feelings lay in the signature at the end of the letter. It was a signature that Murray McTavish disliked.
"John Kars," he muttered aloud.
There was no friendliness in his tone. There was no friendliness in the eyes which were raised from the letter and turned on the deep-set window overlooking the open gates beyond.
For some silent moments he sat there thinking deeply. He continued to smoke, his gaze abstractedly fixed upon the blue film which floated before it upon the still air. Gradually the dislike seemed to pass out of his eyes. The fire in them to die down. Something almost like a smile replaced it, a smile for which his face was so perfect a setting. But his smile would have been difficult to describe. Perhaps it was one of pleasure. Perhaps it was touched with irony. Perhaps, even, it was the smile, the dangerous smile of a man who is fiercely resentful. It was a curiosity in Murray that his smile could at any time be interpreted into an expression of any one of the emotions.
But suddenly there came an interruption. In a moment his abstraction was banished. He sprang alertly from his chair and moved to the door which he held open. He had seen the handsome figure of Ailsa Mowbray pass his window. Now she entered the office in response to his silent invitation. She took the chair which always stood ready before a second desk. It was the desk which had been Allan Mowbray's, and which now was used by his son.
"I've come to talk about Alec," the mother said, turning her chair about, and facing the man who was once more at his desk.
"Sure." The man nodded. His smile had vanished. His look was all concern. He knew, none better than he, that Alec must be discussed between them.
Ailsa Mowbray had aged in the seven months since her husband's death. She had aged considerably. Her spirit, her courage, were undiminished, but the years had at last levied the toll which a happy wifehood had denied them. Nor was Murray unobservant of these things. His partner in the fortunes of Fort Mowbray was an old woman.
"There's difficulty," the mother went on, her handsome eyes averting their gaze towards the window. "Allan didn't reckon on the boy when he said he should have a position right here."
Murray shook his head.
"No," he said. "Guess that desk's been closed down since the season opened. He's brought in half a hundred pelts to his own gun, and guesses he's carrying on his father's work." There was a biting irony in the man's tone.
Ailsa Mowbray sighed.
"He doesn't seem to like settling to the work here."
It was some moments before Murray replied. His big eyes were deeply reflective. The fire in their depths seemed to come and go under varying emotions. His eyes were at all times expressive, but their expressions could rarely be read aright.
"He's troubled with youth, ma'am," he said, as though at last arrived at a definite conclusion, "and he needs to get shut of it before he can be of use to himself, or—to us. You'll excuse me if I talk plain. I've got to talk plain, right here and now. Maybe it hasn't occurred to either of us before just what it means to our enterprise Allan being gone. It means a mighty big heap, so almighty big I can only just see over the top. I take it you'll get me when I say this thing can't be run by a woman. It needs to be run by a man, and, seeing Alec don't figger to set around in this store, I've got to do most of it—with your help. Y'see, ma'am, there's just two sides to this proposition. Either we run it together, or you sell out to me. Anyway, I'm not selling. I'll take it you'll say we run it together. Good. Then it's up to me to do the man's work, while you, I guess, won't have forgotten the work you had to do before I came. If you feel like fixing things that way I guess we can make good till this boy, Alec, forgets he's a kid, and we can hand him all Allan didn't choose to hand him during his life. Get me? Meanwhile we're going to help the boy get over his youth by letting him get his nose outside this