FATHER JOSE PROBES
It was a startled community that awoke next morning at Fort Mowbray.
The news was abroad at the earliest hour, and it reached Jessie Mowbray
in the kitchen, as she made her appearance to superintend the
preparation of breakfast. The Indian wench told her, with picturesque
embellishments, such as are reserved for the native tongue. Jessie
listened to the story of the descent of the Bell River Indians to the
region of the Fort with feelings no less disturbed than those of the
colored woman. They were no longer mistress and servant. They were
just two women confronting a common danger.
But the news of the arrival of John Kars, wounded, swiftly overwhelmed
all other considerations in Jessie's mind. Breakfast was left in the
hands of the squaw while the girl hastened to her mother's room.
Ailsa Mowbray listened to the girl's story with no outward signs of
fear. She had passed through the worst fires that could assail her a
year ago. Nothing the warlike Indians could threaten now could
reproduce the terror of that time.
The story of it came in a rush. But it was not until Jessie told of
John Kars, and his wounded condition, that the real emotions of the
moment were revealed. She implored her mother to permit her to go at
once and minister to him, to learn the truth about his condition, to
hear, first hand, of the catastrophe that had happened. Nor did she
passively yield to her mother's kindly admonishment.
"Why, child," she said, in her steady smiling way, "this country's
surely got right into your veins. You're like an unbroken colt.
You're as wild as any of those kiddies you figger to teach over at the
Mission. It's not for a child of mine to wait around on any man
living. Not even John Kars. Guess he's got Dr. Bill and Father José,
anyway. Maybe they'll get along over later."
The girl flushed scarlet.
"Oh, mother," she cried in distress, "don't--just don't think that way
of me. I--love him, and wouldn't help it if I could. But he's sick.
Maybe he's sick to death. Men--men can't fix sick folk. They
can't--sure."
The mother looked into the girl's eyes with gentle tolerance, and a
certain amusement.
"Not even Dr. Bill, who's had sick folk on his hands most all his
life?" she demanded. "Not even José, who's nursed half the kiddies at
the Mission one time or another?" She shook her head. "Besides, you
only know the things Susan's handed you out of her fool head. And when
Susan talks, truth isn't a circumstance. I wouldn't say but what John
Kars hasn't got shot up at all--till I see him."
For all her easy manner she was troubled. And when Jessie had taken
herself back to the kitchen the ominous lines, which had gathered in
her face since her husband's murder, deepened. Distress looked out of
the eyes which gazed back at her out of her mirror as she stood before
it dressing her hair in the simple fashion of her life.
Bell River! She had learned to hate and fear its very name. Her whole
destiny, the destiny of all belonging to her seemed to be bound up in
that fateful secret which had been her husband's, and to which she had
been only partially admitted. Somehow she felt that the day must come
when she would have to assert her position to Murray, and once and for
all break from under the evil spell of Bell River, which seemed to hang
over her life.
But the shadow of it all lifted when later in the day John Kars and Dr.
Bill presented themselves. Kars' wound was almost completely healed,
and Jessie's delight knew no bounds. The mother reflected her
daughter's happiness, and she found herself able to listen to the story
of the adventures of these men without anything of the unease which had
at first assailed her.
Their story was substantially that which had been told to Murray, and
it was told with a matter-of-fact indifference, and made light of, in
the strong tones of John Kars, on whom danger seemed to have so little
effect. As Mrs. Mowbray listened she realized something of the
strength of this man. The purpose in him. The absolute reliance with
which he dealt with events as they confronted him. And so her thoughts
passed on to the girl who loved him, and she wondered, and more than
ever saw the hopelessness of Murray's aspirations.
The men took their departure, and, at Kars' invitation, Jessie went
with them to inspect their outfit. The mother was left gazing after
them from the open doorway. For all the aging since her husband's
death, she was still a handsome woman in her simple morning gown of a
bygone fashion.
She watched the three as they moved away in the direction of the
woodland avenue, which, years ago, she had helped to clear. Her eyes
and thoughts were on the man, and the girl at his side. Bill had far
less place in them.
She was thinking, and wondering, and hoping, as, perhaps, only a mother
can hope. And so engrossed was she that she did not observe the
approach of Father José, who came from the Indian camp amongst the
straight-limbed pine woods. It was only when the little man spoke that
she bestirred herself.
"A swell pair, ma'am," he said, pausing beside the doorway, his keen
face smiling as his eyes followed the rapid gait of the girl striving
to keep pace with her companion's long strides.
"You mean the men?"
There was no self-consciousness in Ailsa Mowbray. The priest shook his
head.
"Jessie and Kars."
The woman's steady eyes regarded the priest for a moment.
"I--wonder what you're--guessing."
The priest's smile deepened.
"That you'd sooner it was he than--Murray McTavish."
The woman watched the departing figures as they passed out of view,
vanishing behind the cutting where the trees stopped short.
"Is it to be--either of them?"
"Sure." The man's reply came definitely. "But Murray hasn't a chance.
She'll marry Kars, or no one around this Mission."
The woman sighed.
"I promised Murray to--that his cause shouldn't suffer at my hands.
Murray's a straight man. His interests are ours. Maybe--it would be a
good thing."
"Then he asked you?"
The little priest's question came on the instant. And the glance
accompanying it was anxious.
"Yes."
For some moments no word passed between them. The woman was looking
back with regret at the time when Murray had appealed to her. Father
José was searching his heart to fortify his purpose.
Finally he shook his white head.
"Ma'am," he said seriously, "it's not good for older folks to seek to
fix these things for the young people who belong to them. Not even
mothers." Then his manner changed, and a sly, upward, smiling glance
was turned upon the woman's face above him. "I haven't a thing against
Murray. Nor have you. But I'd hate to see him marry Jessie. So would
you. I--I wonder why."
The mother's reply came at once. It came with that curious brusqueness
which so many women use when forced to a reluctant admission.
"That's so," she said. "I should hate it, too. I didn't want to say
it. I didn't want to admit it--even to myself. You've made me do
both, and--you've no right to. Murray was Allan's trusted friend and
partner. He's been our friend--my friend--right along. Why should I
hate the thought of him for Jessie? Can you tell me?" She shook her
head impatiently. "How could you? I couldn't tell myself."
The shadow had deepened in Ailsa Mowbray's eyes. She knew she was
unjust. She knew she was going back on her given word. She despised
the thought. It was treachery. Yet she knew that both had become
definite in her mind from the moment when Jessie had involuntarily
confided her secret to her.
Father José shook his head.
"No. I can't tell you those things, ma'am," he said. "But I'm glad of
them. Very glad."
He drew a deep breath as his gaze, abstracted, far off, was turned in
the direction where his Mission stood in all its pristine, makeshift
simplicity. The mother turned on him sharply as his quiet reply
reached her.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why are you glad?"
Her eyes were searching his clean-cut profile. She knew she was
seeking this man's considered judgment. She knew she was seeking to
probe the feeling and thought which prompted his approval, because of
her faith in him.
"Because Jessie's worth a--better man."
"Better?"
"Surely."
For all his prompt reply Father José remained searching the confines of
the woodland clearing in his curiously abstracted fashion.
"You see, ma'am," he went on presently, helping himself to a pinch of
snuff, and shutting the box with a sharp slam, "goodness is just a
matter of degree. That's goodness as we folk of the earth understand
it. We see results. We don't see the motive. It's motive that counts
in all goodness. The man who lives straight, who acts straight when
temptation offers, may be no better than--than the man who falls for
evil. I once knew a _saint_ who was hanged by the neck because he
murdered a man. He gave his life, and intended to give it, for a poor
weak fellow creature who was being tortured out of her senses by a man
who was no better than a hound of Hell. That man was made of the same
stuff as John Kars, if I know him. I can't see Murray McTavish acting
that way. Yet I could see him act like the other feller--if it suited
him. Murray's good. Sure he's good. But John Kars is--better."
The mother sighed.
"I feel that way, too." Then in a moment her eyes lit with a subtle
apprehension, as though the man's words had planted a poison in her
heart that was rapidly spreading through her veins. "But there's
nothing wrong with Murray? I mean like--like you said."
The little priest's smile was good to see.
"Not a thing, ma'am," he said earnestly. "Murray's gold, so far as we
see. It's only that we see just what he wants us to see. Kars is
gold, too, but--you can see clear through Kars. That's all."
The woman's apprehensions were allayed. But she knew that, where
Jessie was concerned, the little Padre had only put into words those
unspoken, almost unrealized feelings which had been hers all along.
She moved out of the doorway.
"Alec's up at the Fort. Maybe he's fretting I'm not up there to help."
She smiled. "Say, the boy's changed since--since he's to get his
vacation. He hasn't a word against Murray--now. And I'm glad. So
glad."
The Padre had turned to go. He paused.
"I'd be gladder if it was John Kars he was making the trail with," he
said, in his direct fashion. Then he smiled. "And at this moment
maybe Murray's risking his life for us."
"Yes."
The mother sighed. The disloyalty of their feelings seemed deplorable,
and it was the priest who came to her rescue.
"But it can't be. That's all."
"No. It would affront Murray."
Father José nodded.
"Murray mustn't be affronted--with so much depending on him."
"No." Ailsa Mowbray's eyes lit with a shadow of a smile as she went
on. "I feel like--like a plotter. It's terrible."
For answer Father José nodded. He had no word to offer to dispel the
woman's unease, so he hurried away without further spoken word between
them.
Ailsa Mowbray turned toward the path through the woods at the foot of
the hill. As she made her way up towards the Fort her thoughts were
painfully busy. What, she asked herself, again and again, was the
thing that lay at the back of the little priest's mind? What--what was
the curious, nebulous instinct that was busy at the back of her own?