{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_1388/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_1388","id":"gutenberg_1388","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1388","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Missions -- California -- Fiction","Priests -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Bill Brewer\n\n\n\n\n\nPADRE IGNACIO\n\nOr The Song of Temptation\n\nBy Owen Wister\n\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nAt Santa Ysabel del Mar the season was at one of those moments when the\nair rests quiet over land and sea. The old breezes were gone; the new\nones were not yet risen. The flowers in the mission garden opened wide;\nno wind came by day or night to shake the loose petals from their stems.\nAlong the basking, silent, many-colored shore gathered and lingered the\ncrisp odors of the mountains. The dust hung golden and motionless long\nafter the rider was behind the hill, and the Pacific lay like a floor\nof sapphire, whereon to walk beyond the setting sun into the East. One\nwhite sail shone there. Instead of an hour, it had been from dawn till\nafternoon in sight between the short headlands; and the Padre had hoped\nthat it might be the ship his homesick heart awaited. But it had slowly\npassed. From an arch in his garden cloisters he was now watching the\nlast of it. Presently it was gone, and the great ocean lay empty. The\nPadre put his glasses in his lap. For a short while he read in his\nbreviary, but soon forgot it again. He looked at the flowers and sunny\nridges, then at the huge blue triangle of sea which the opening of\nthe hills let into sight. \"Paradise,\" he murmured, \"need not hold more\nbeauty and peace. But I think I would exchange all my remaining years of\nthis for one sight again of Paris or Seville. May God forgive me such a\nthought!\"\n\nAcross the unstirred fragrance of oleanders the bell for vespers began\nto ring. Its tones passed over the Padre as he watched the sea in his\ngarden. They reached his parishioners in their adobe dwellings near by.\nThe gentle circles of sound floated outward upon the smooth, immense\nsilence--over the vines and pear-trees; down the avenues of the olives;\ninto the planted fields, whence women and children began to return; then\nout of the lap of the valley along the yellow uplands, where the men\nthat rode among the cattle paused, looking down like birds at the map\nof their home. Then the sound widened, faint, unbroken, until it met\nTemptation in the guise of a youth, riding toward the Padre from the\nSouth, and cheered the steps of Temptation's jaded horse.\n\n\"For a day, one single day of Paris!\" repeated the Padre, gazing through\nhis cloisters at the empty sea.\n\nOnce in the year the mother-world remembered him. Once in the year,\nfrom Spain, tokens and home-tidings came to him, sent by certain beloved\nfriends of his youth. A barkentine brought him these messages. Whenever\nthus the mother-world remembered him, it was like the touch of a warm\nhand, a dear and tender caress; a distant life, by him long left behind,\nseemed to be drawing the exile homeward from these alien shores. As the\ntime for his letters and packets drew near, the eyes of Padre Ignacio\nwould be often fixed wistfully upon the harbor, watching for the\nbarkentine. Sometimes, as to-day, he mistook other sails for hers, but\nhers he mistook never. That Pacific Ocean, which, for all its hues and\njeweled mists, he could not learn to love, had, since long before his\nday, been furrowed by the keels of Spain. Traders, and adventurers,\nand men of God had passed along this coast, planting their colonies and\ncloisters; but it was not his ocean. In the year that we, a thin strip\nof patriots away over on the Atlantic edge of the continent, declared\nourselves an independent nation, a Spanish ship, in the name of Saint\nFrancis, was unloading the centuries of her own civilization at the\nGolden Gate. San Diego had come earlier. Then, slowly, as mission\nafter mission was built along the soft coast wilderness, new ports\nwere established--at Santa Barbara, and by Point San Luis for San Luis\nObispo, which lay inland a little way up the gorge where it opened among\nthe hills. Thus the world reached these missions by water; while on\nland, through the mountains, a road led to them, and also to many more\nthat were too distant behind the hills for ships to serve--a rough road,\nlong and lonely, punctuated with church towers and gardens. For the\nFathers gradually so stationed their settlements that the traveler might\neach morning ride out from one mission and by evening of a day's fair\njourney ride into the next. A lonely, rough, dangerous road, but lovely,\ntoo, with a name like music--El Camino Real. Like music also were the\nnames of the missions--San Juan Capistrano, San Luis Rey de Francia, San\nMiguel, Santa Ynes--their very list is a song.\n\nSo there, by-and-by, was our continent, with the locomotive whistling\nfrom Savannah to Boston along its eastern edge, and on the western the\nscattered chimes of Spain ringing among the unpeopled mountains. Thus\ngrew the two sorts of civilization--not equally. We know what has\nhappened since. To-day the locomotive is whistling also from The Golden\nGate to San Diego; but still the old mission-road goes through the\nmountains, and along it the footsteps of vanished Spain are marked with\nroses, and broken cloisters, and the crucifix.\n\nBut this was 1855. Only the barkentine brought to Padre Ignacio the\nsigns from the world that he once had known and loved so dearly. As for\nthe new world making a rude noise to the northward, he trusted that it\nmight keep away from Santa Ysabel, and he waited for the vessel that was\noverdue with its package containing his single worldly luxury.\n\nAs the little, ancient bronze bell continued swinging in the tower,\nits plaintive call reached something in the Padre's memory. Softly,\nabsently, he began to sing. He took up the slow strain not quite\ncorrectly, and dropped it, and took it up again, always in cadence with\nthe bell.\n\n[musical score appears here]\n\nAt length he heard himself, and, glancing at the belfry, smiled a\nlittle. \"It is a pretty tune,\" he said, \"and it always made me sorry for\npoor Fra Diavolo. Auber himself confessed to me that he had made it sad\nand put the hermitage bell to go with it, because he too was grieved\nat having to kill his villain, and wanted him, if possible, to die in a\nreligious frame of mind. And Auber touched glasses with me and said--how\nwell I remember it!--'Is it the good Lord, or is it merely the devil,\nthat makes me always have a weakness for rascals?' I told him it was the\ndevil. I was not a priest then. I could not be so sure with my answer\nnow.\" And then Padre Ignacio repeated Auber's remark in French: \"'Est-ce\nle bon Dieu, oui est-ce bien le diable, qui veut tonjours que j'aime\nles coquins?' I don't know! I don't know! I wonder if Auber has composed\nanything lately? I wonder who is singing 'Zerlina' now?\"\n\nHe cast a farewell look at the ocean, and took his steps between the\nmonastic herbs, the jasmines and the oleanders to the sacristy. \"At\nleast,\" he said, \"if we cannot carry with us into exile the friends and\nthe places we have loved, music will go whither we go, even to an end of\nthe world such as this.--Felipe!\" he called to his organist. \"Can they\nsing the music I taught them for the Dixit Dominus to-night?\"\n\n\"Yes, father, surely.\"\n\n\"Then we will have that. And, Felipe--\" The Padre crossed the chancel to\nthe small, shabby organ. \"Rise, my child, and listen. Here is something\nyou can learn. Why, see now if you cannot learn it from a single\nhearing.\"\n\nThe swarthy boy of sixteen stood watching his master's fingers, delicate\nand white, as they played. Thus, of his own accord, he had begun to\nwatch them when a child of six; and the Padre had taken the wild,\nhalf-scared, spellbound creature and made a musician of him.\n\n\"There, Felipe!\" he said now. \"Can you do it? Slower, and more softly,\nmuchacho mio. It is about the death of a man, and it should go with our\nbell.\"\n\nThe boy listened. \"Then the father has played it a tone too low,\" said\nhe, \"for our bell rings the note of sol, or something very near it, as\nthe father must surely know.\" He placed the melody in the right key--an\neasy thing for him; and the Padre was delighted.\n\n\"Ah, my Felipe,\" he exclaimed, \"what could you and I not do if we had a\nbetter organ! Only a little better! See! above this row of keys would be\na second row, and many more stops. Then we would make such music as has\nnever yet been heard in California. But my people are so poor and so\nfew! And some day I shall have passed from them, and it will be too\nlate.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" ventured Felipe, \"the Americanos--\"\n\n\"They care nothing for us, Felipe. They are not of our religion--or of\nany religion, from what I can hear. Don't forget my Dixit Dominus.\"\n\nThe Padre retired once more to the sacristy, while the horse that\nbrought Temptation came over the hill.\n\nThe hour of service drew near; and as the Padre waited he once again\nstepped out for a look at the ocean; but the blue triangle of water lay\nlike a picture in its frame of land, bare as the sky. \"I think, from the\ncolor, though,\" said he, \"that a little more wind must have begun out\nthere.\"\n\nThe bell rang a last short summons to prayer. Along the road from the\nsouth a young rider, leading a pack-animal, ambled into the mission and\ndismounted. Church was not so much in his thoughts as food and, after\ndue digestion, a bed; but the doors stood open, and, as everybody was\npassing within them, more variety was to be gained by joining this\ncompany than by waiting outside alone until they should return from\ntheir devotions. So he seated himself in a corner near the entrance, and\nafter a brief, jaunty glance at the sunburned, shaggy congregation, made\nhimself as comfortable as might be. He had not seen a face worth keeping\nhis eyes open for. The simple choir and simple fold, gathered for\neven-song, paid him no attention--a rough American bound for the mines\nwas but an object of aversion to them.\n\nThe Padre, of course, had been instantly aware of the stranger's\npresence. To be aware of unaccustomed presences is the sixth sense with\nvicars of every creed and heresy; and if the parish is lonely and the\nworshipers few and seldom varying, a newcomer will gleam out like a new\nbook to be read. And a trained priest learns to read keenly the faces of\nthose who assemble to worship under his guidance. But American vagrants,\nwith no thoughts save of gold-digging, and an overweening illiterate\njargon for speech, had long ceased to interest this priest, even in his\nstarvation for company and talk from the outside world; and therefore\nafter the intoning he sat with his homesick thoughts unchanged, to draw\nboth pain and enjoyment from the music that he had set to the Dixit\nDominus. He listened to the tender chorus that opens William Tell; and,\nas the Latin psalm proceeded, pictures of the past rose between him and\nthe altar. One after another came these strains he had taken from operas\nfamous in their day, until at length the Padre was murmuring to some\nmusic seldom long out of his heart--not the Latin verse which the choir\nsang, but the original French words:\n\n                 \"Ah, voile man envie,\n                     Voila mon seul desir:\n                 Rendez moi ma patrie,\n                     Ou laissez moi mourir.\"\n\nWhich may be rendered:\n\n                 But one wish I implore,\n                     One wish is all my cry:\n                 Give back my native land once more,\n                     Give back, or let me die.\n\nThen it happened that his eye fell again upon the stranger near the\ndoor, and he straightway forgot his Dixit Dominus. The face of the young\nman was no longer hidden by the slouching position he had at first\ntaken. \"I only noticed his clothes at first,\" thought the Padre.\nRestlessness was plain upon the handsome brow, and violence was in the\nmouth; but Padre Ignacio liked the eyes. \"He is not saying any prayers,\"\nhe surmised, presently. \"I doubt if he has said any for a long while.\nAnd he knows my music. He is of educated people. He cannot be American.\nAnd now--yes, he has taken--I think it must be a flower, from his\npocket. I shall have him to dine with me.\" And vespers ended with rosy\nclouds of eagerness drifting across the Padre's brain.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nBut the stranger made his own beginning. As the priest came from the\nchurch, the rebellious young figure was waiting. \"Your organist tells\nme,\" he said, impetuously, \"that it is you who--\"\n\n\"May I ask with whom I have the great pleasure of speaking?\" said the\nPadre, putting formality to the front and his pleasure out of sight.\n\nThe stranger's face reddened beneath its sun-beaten bronze, and he\nbecame aware of the Padre's pale features, molded by refinement and the\nworld. \"I beg your lenience,\" said he, with a graceful and confident\nutterance, as of equal to equal. \"My name is Gaston Villere, and it was\ntime I should be reminded of my manners.\"\n\nThe Padre's hand waved a polite negative.\n\n\"Indeed, yes, Padre. But your music has amazed me. If you carried such\nassociations as--Ah! the days and the nights!\"--he broke off. \"To come\ndown a California mountain and find Paris at the bottom! The Huguenots,\nRossini, Herold--I was waiting for Il Trovatore.\"\n\n\"Is that something new?\" inquired the Padre, eagerly.\n\nThe young man gave an exclamation. \"The whole world is ringing with it!\"\nhe cried.\n\n\"But Santa Ysabel del Mar is a long way from the whole world,\" murmured\nPadre Ignacio.\n\n\"Indeed, it would not appear to be so,\" returned young Gaston. \"I think\nthe Comedie Francaise must be round the corner.\"\n\nA thrill went through the priest at the theater's name. \"And have you\nbeen long in America?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why, always--except two years of foreign travel after college.\"\n\n\"An American!\" exclaimed the surprised Padre, with perhaps a tone of\ndisappointment in his voice. \"But no Americans who are yet come this\nway have been--have been\"--he veiled the too-blunt expression of his\nthought--\"have been familiar with The Huguenots,\" he finished, making a\nslight bow.\n\nVillere took his under-meaning. \"I come from New Orleans,\" he returned,\n\"and in New Orleans there live many of us who can recognize a--who can\nrecognize good music wherever we hear it.\" And he made a slight bow in\nhis turn.\n\nThe Padre laughed outright with pleasure and laid his hand upon the\nyoung man's arm. \"You have no intention of going away to-morrow, I\ntrust?\"\n\n\"With your leave,\" answered Gaston, \"I will have such an intention no\nlonger.\"\n\nIt was with the air and gait of mutual understanding that the two now\nwalked on together toward the Padre's door. The guest was twenty-five,\nthe host sixty.\n\n\"And have you been in America long?\" inquired Gaston.\n\n\"Twenty years.\"\n\n\"And at Santa Ysabel how long?\"\n\n\"Twenty years.\"\n\n\"I should have thought,\" said Gaston, looking lightly at the desert\nand unpeopled mountains, \"that now and again you might have wished to\ntravel.\"\n\n\"Were I your age,\" murmured Padre Ignacio, \"it might be so.\"\n\nThe evening had now ripened to the long after-glow of sunset. The sea\nwas the purple of grapes, and wine-colored hues flowed among the high\nshoulders of the mountains.\n\n\"I have seen a sight like this,\" said Gaston, \"between Granada and\nMalaga.\"\n\n\"So you know Spain!\" said the Padre.\n\nOften he had thought of this resemblance, but never till now met any\none to share his thought. The courtly proprietor of San Fernando and the\nother patriarchal rancheros with whom he occasionally exchanged visits\nacross the wilderness knew hospitality and inherited gentle manners,\nsending to Europe for silks and laces to give their daughters; but their\neyes had not looked upon Granada, and their ears had never listened to\nWilliam Tell.\n\n\"It is quite singular,\" pursued Gaston, \"how one nook in the world will\nsuddenly remind you of another nook that may be thousands of miles away.\nOne morning, behind the Quai Voltaire, an old, yellow house with rusty\nbalconies made me almost homesick for New Orleans.\"\n\n\"The Quai Voltaire!\" said the Padre.\n\n\"I heard Rachel in Valerie that night,\" the young man went on. \"Did you\nknow that she could sing, too. She sang several verses by an astonishing\nlittle Jew violin-cellist that is come up over there.\"\n\nThe Padre gazed down at his blithe guest. \"To see somebody, somebody,\nonce again, is very pleasant to a hermit!\"\n\n\"It cannot be more pleasant than arriving at an oasis,\" returned Gaston.\n\nThey had delayed on the threshold to look at the beauty of the evening,\nand now the priest watched his parishioners come and go. \"How can one\nmake companions--\" he began; then, checking himself, he said: \"Their\nsouls are as sacred and immortal as mine, and God helps me to help\nthem. But in this world it is not immortal souls that we choose for\ncompanions; it is kindred tastes, intelligences, and--and so I and my\nbooks are growing old together, you see,\" he added, more lightly. \"You\nwill find my volumes as behind the times as myself.\"\n\nHe had fallen into talk more intimate than he wished; and while the\nguest was uttering something polite about the nobility of missionary\nwork, he placed him in an easy-chair and sought aguardiente for his\nimmediate refreshment. Since the year's beginning there had been no\nguest for him to bring into his rooms, or to sit beside him in the high\nseats at table, set apart for the gente fina.\n\nSuch another library was not then in California; and though Gaston\nVillere, in leaving Harvard College, had shut Horace and Sophocles for\never at the earliest instant possible under academic requirements, he\nknew the Greek and Latin names that he now saw as well as he knew those\nof Shakspere, Dante, Moliere, and Cervantes. These were here also; but\nit could not be precisely said of them, either, that they made a part\nof the young man's daily reading. As he surveyed the Padre's august\nshelves, it was with a touch of the histrionic Southern gravity which\nhis Northern education had not wholly schooled out of him that he said:\n\n\"I fear I am no scholar, sir. But I know what writers every gentleman\nought to respect.\"\n\nThe polished Padre bowed gravely to this compliment.\n\nIt was when his eyes caught sight of the music that the young man felt\nagain at ease, and his vivacity returned to him. Leaving his chair, he\nbegan enthusiastically to examine the tall piles that filled one side\nof the room. The volumes lay piled and scattered everywhere, making\na pleasant disorder; and, as perfume comes from a flower, memories\nof singers and chandeliers rose bright from the printed names. Norma,\nTancredi, Don Pasquale, La Vestale, dim lights in the fashions of\nto-day, sparkled upon the exploring Gaston, conjuring the radiant halls\nof Europe before him. \"The Barber of Seville!\" he presently exclaimed.\n\"And I happened to hear it in Seville.\"\n\nBut Seville's name brought over the Padre a new rush of home thoughts.\n\"Is not Andalusia beautiful?\" he said. \"Did you see it in April, when\nthe flowers come?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Gaston, among the music. \"I was at Cordova then.\"\n\n\"Ah, Cordova!\" murmured the Padre.\n\n\"Semiramide!\" cried Gaston, lighting upon that opera. \"That was a week!\nI should like to live it over, every day and night of it!\"\n\n\"Did you reach Malaga from Marseilles or Gibraltar?\" asked the Padre,\nwistfully.\n\n\"From Marseilles. Down from Paris through the Rhone Valley, you know.\"\n\n\"Then you saw Provence! And did you go, perhaps, from Avignon to Nismes\nby the Pont du Gard? There is a place I have made here--a little, little\nplace--with olive-trees. And now they have grown, and it looks something\nlike that country, if you stand in a particular position. I will take\nyou there to-morrow. I think you will understand what I mean.\"\n\n\"Another resemblance!\" said the volatile and happy Gaston. \"We both seem\nto have an eye for them. But, believe me, Padre, I could never stay here\nplanting olives. I should go back and see the original ones--and then\nI'd hasten on to Paris.\"\n\nAnd, with a volume of Meyerbeer open in his hand, Gaston hummed:\n\"'Robert, Robert, toi que j'aime.' Why, Padre, I think that your library\ncontains none of the masses and all of the operas in the world!\"\n\n\"I will make you a little confession,\" said Padre Ignacio, \"and then you\nshall give me a little absolution.\"\n\n\"For a penance,\" said Gaston, \"you must play over some of these things\nto me.\"\n\n\"I suppose I could not permit myself this luxury,\" began the Padre,\npointing to his operas, \"and teach these to my choir, if the people had\nany worldly associations with the music. But I have reasoned that the\nmusic cannot do them harm--\"\n\nThe ringing of a bell here interrupted him. \"In fifteen minutes,\" he\nsaid, \"our poor meal will be ready for you.\" The good Padre was\nnot quite sincere when he spoke of a \"poor meal.\" While getting the\naguardiente for his guest he had given orders, and he knew how well such\norders would be carried out. He lived alone, and generally supped simply\nenough, but not even the ample table at San Fernando could surpass his\nown on occasions. And this was for him indeed an occasion!\n\n\"Your half-breeds will think I am one of themselves,\" said Gaston,\nshowing his dusty clothes. \"I am not fit to be seated with you.\" But he\ndid not mean this any more than his host had meant his remark about\nthe food. In his pack, which an Indian had brought from his horse, he\ncarried some garments of civilization. And presently, after fresh water\nand not a little painstaking with brush and scarf, there came back to\nthe Padre a young guest whose elegance and bearing and ease of the\ngreat world were to the exiled priest as sweet as was his traveled\nconversation.\n\nThey repaired to the hall and took their seats at the head of the long\ntable. For the Spanish centuries of stately custom lived at Santa Ysabel\ndel Mar, inviolate, feudal, remote.\n\nThey were the only persons of quality present; and between themselves\nand the gente de razon a space intervened. Behind the Padre's chair\nstood an Indian to waft upon him, and another stood behind the chair of\nGaston Villere. Each of these servants wore one single white garment,\nand offered the many dishes to the gente fina and refilled their\nglasses. At the lower end of the table a general attendant wafted upon\nmesclados--the half-breeds. There was meat with spices, and roasted\nquail, with various cakes and other preparations of grain; also the\nbrown fresh olives and grapes, with several sorts of figs and plums,\nand preserved fruits, and white and red wine--the white fifty years\nold. Beneath the quiet shining of candles, fresh-cut flowers leaned from\nvessels of old Mexican and Spanish make.\n\nThere at one end of this feast sat the wild, pastoral, gaudy company,\nspeaking little over their food; and there at the other the pale Padre,\nquestioning his visitor about Rachel. The mere name of a street would\nbring memories crowding to his lips; and when his guest told him of a\nnew play he was ready with old quotations from the same author. Alfred\nde Vigny they spoke of, and Victor Hugo, whom the Padre disliked. Long\nafter the dulce, or sweet dish, when it was the custom for the vaqueros\nand the rest of the retainers to rise and leave the gente fina to\nthemselves, the host sat on in the empty hail, fondly talking to his\nguest of his bygone Paris and fondly learning of the later Paris\nthat the guest had seen. And thus the two lingered, exchanging their\nenthusiasms, while the candles waned, and the long-haired Indians stood\nsilent behind the chairs.\n\n\"But we must go to my piano,\" the host exclaimed. For at length they had\ncome to a lusty difference of opinion. The Padre, with ears critically\ndeaf, and with smiling, unconvinced eyes, was shaking his head, while\nyoung Gaston sang Trovatore at him, and beat upon the table with a fork.\n\n\"Come and convert me, then,\" said Padre Ignacio, and he led the way.\n\"Donizetti I have always admitted. There, at least, is refinement.\nIf the world has taken to this Verdi, with his street-band music--But\nthere, now! Sit down and convert me. Only don't crush my poor little\nErard with Verdi's hoofs. I brought it when I came. It is behind the\ntimes, too. And, oh, my dear boy, our organ is still worse. So old, so\nold! To get a proper one I would sacrifice even this piano of mine in a\nmoment--only the tinkling thing is not worth a sou to anybody except its\nmaster. But there! Are you quite comfortable?\" And having seen to his\nguest's needs, and placed spirits and cigars and an ash-tray within his\nreach, the Padre sat himself comfortably in his chair to hear and expose\nthe false doctrine of Il Trovatore.\n\nBy midnight all of the opera that Gaston could recall had been played\nand sung twice. The convert sat in his chair no longer, but stood\nsinging by the piano. The potent swing and flow of rhythms, the torrid,\ncopious inspiration of the South, mastered him. \"Verdi has grown,\"\nhe cried. \"Verdi is become a giant.\" And he swayed to the beat of the\nmelodies, and waved an enthusiastic arm. He demanded every note. Why did\nnot Gaston remember it all? But if the barkentine would arrive and bring\nthe whole music, then they would have it right! And he made Gaston teach\nhim what words he knew. \"'Non ti scorder,'\" he sang--\"'non ti scordar di\nme.' That is genius. But one sees how the world moves when one is out of\nit. 'A nostri monti ritorneremo'; home to our mountains. Ah, yes, there\nis genius again.\" And the exile sighed and his spirit voyaged to distant\nplaces, while Gaston continued brilliantly with the music of the final\nscene.\n\nThen the host remembered his guest. \"I am ashamed of my selfishness,\" he\nsaid. \"It is already to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I have sat later in less good company,\" answered the pleasant Gaston.\n\"And I shall sleep all the sounder for making a convert.\"\n\n\"You have dispensed roadside alms,\" said the Padre, smiling, \"and that\nshould win excellent dreams.\"\n\nThus, with courtesies more elaborate than the world has time for at the\npresent day, they bade each other good-night and parted, bearing their\nlate candles along the quiet halls of the mission. To young Gaston in\nhis bed easy sleep came without waiting, and no dreams at all. Outside\nhis open window was the quiet, serene darkness, where the stars shone\nclear, and tranquil perfumes hung in the cloisters. But while the guest\nlay sleeping all night in unchanged position like a child, up and down\nbetween the oleanders went Padre Ignacio, walking until dawn. Temptation\nindeed had come over the hill and entered the cloisters.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nDay showed the ocean's surface no longer glassy, but lying like a mirror\nbreathed upon; and there between the short headlands came a sail,\ngray and plain against the flat water. The priest watched through his\nglasses, and saw the gradual sun grow strong upon the canvas of the\nbarkentine. The message from his world was at hand, yet to-day he\nscarcely cared so much. Sitting in his garden yesterday, he could never\nhave imagined such a change. But his heart did not hail the barkentine\nas usual. Books, music, pale paper, and print--this was all that was\ncoming to him, some of its savor had gone; for the siren voice of Life\nhad been speaking with him face to face, and in his spirit, deep down,\nthe love of the world was restlessly answering it. Young Gaston showed\nmore eagerness than the Padre over this arrival of the vessel that might\nbe bringing Trovatore in the nick of time. Now he would have the chance,\nbefore he took his leave, to help rehearse the new music with the choir.\nHe would be a missionary, too: a perfectly new experience.\n\n\"And you still forgive Verdi the sins of his youth?\" he said to his\nhost. \"I wonder if you could forgive mine?\"\n\n\"Verdi has left his behind him,\" retorted the Padre.\n\n\"But I am only twenty-five!\" exclaimed Gaston, pathetically.\n\n\"Ah, don't go away soon!\" pleaded the exile. It was the first\nunconcealed complaint that had escaped him, and he felt instant shame.\n\nBut Gaston was too much elated with the enjoyment of each new day to\ncomprehend the Padre's soul. The shafts of another's pain might hardly\npierce the bright armor of his gaiety. He mistook the priest's entreaty,\nfor anxiety about his own happy spirit.\n\n\"Stay here under your care?\" he asked. \"It would do me no good, Padre.\nTemptation sticks closer to me than a brother!\" and he gave that laugh\nof his which had disarmed severer judges than his host. \"By next week I\nshould have introduced some sin or other into your beautiful Garden of\nIgnorance here. It will be much safer for your flock if I go and join\nthe other serpents at San Francisco.\"\n\nSoon after breakfast the Padre had his two mules saddled, and he and his\nguest set forth down the hills together to the shore. And, beneath the\nspell and confidence of pleasant, slow riding and the loveliness of\neverything, the young man talked freely of himself.\n\n\"And, seriously,\" said he, \"if I missed nothing else at Santa Ysabel, I\nshould long for--how shall I say it?--for insecurity, for danger, and\nof all kinds--not merely danger to the body. Within these walls, beneath\nthese sacred bells, you live too safe for a man like me.\"\n\n\"Too safe!\" These echoed words upon the lips of the pale Padre were a\nwhisper too light, too deep, for Gaston's heedless ear.\n\n\"Why,\" the young man pursued in a spirit that was but half levity,\n\"though I yield often to temptation, at times I have resisted it, and\nhere I should miss the very chance to resist. Your garden could never be\nEden for me, because temptation is absent from it.\"\n\n\"Absent!\" Still lighter, still deeper, was this whisper that the Padre\nbreathed.\n\n\"I must find life,\" exclaimed Gaston, \"and my fortune at the mines, I\nhope. I am not a bad fellow, Father. You can easily guess all the things\nI do. I have never, to my knowledge, harmed any one. I didn't even\ntry to kill my adversary in an affair of honor. I gave him a mere\nflesh-wound, and by this time he must be quite recovered. He was my\nfriend. But as he came between me--\"\n\nGaston stopped, and the Padre, looking keenly at him, saw the violence\nthat he had noticed in church pass like a flame over the young man's\nhandsome face.\n\n\"That's nothing dishonorable,\" said Gaston, answering the priest's look.\nAnd then, because this look made him not quite at his ease: \"Perhaps a\npriest might feel obliged to say it was dishonorable. She and her father\nwere--a man owes no fidelity before he is--but you might say that had\nbeen dishonorable.\"\n\n\"I have not said so, my son.\"\n\n\"I did what every gentleman would do.\" insisted Gaston.\n\n\"And that is often wrong!\" said the Padre, gently and gravely. \"But I'm\nnot your confessor.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Gaston, looking down. \"And it is all over. It will not begin\nagain. Since leaving New Orleans I have traveled an innocent journey\nstraight to you. And when I make my fortune I shall be in a position to\nreturn and--\"\n\n\"Claim the pressed flower?\" suggested the Padre. He did not smile.\n\n\"Ah, you remember how those things are!\" said Gaston: and he laughed and\nblushed.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Padre, looking at the anchored barkentine, \"I remember\nhow those things are.\"\n\nFor a while the vessel and its cargo and the landed men and various\nbusiness and conversations occupied them. But the freight for the\nmission once seen to, there was not much else to detain them.\n\nThe barkentine was only a coaster like many others which had begun to\nfill the sea a little more of late years, and presently host and guest\nwere riding homeward. Side by side they rode, companions to the eye, but\nwide apart in mood; within the turbulent young figure of Gaston dwelt\na spirit that could not be more at ease, while revolt was steadily\nkindling beneath the schooled and placid mask of the Padre.\n\nYet still the strangeness of his situation in such a remote,\nresourceless place came back as a marvel into the young man's lively\nmind. Twenty years in prison, he thought, and hardly aware of it! And\nhe glanced at the silent priest. A man so evidently fond of music, of\ntheaters, of the world, to whom pressed flowers had meant something\nonce--and now contented to bleach upon these wastes! Not even desirous\nof a brief holiday, but finding an old organ and some old operas enough\nrecreation! \"It is his age, I suppose,\" thought Gaston. And then the\nnotion of himself when he should be sixty occurred to him, and he spoke.\n\n\"Do you know, I do not believe,\" said he, \"that I should ever reach such\ncontentment as yours.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you will,\" said Padre Ignacio, in a low voice.\n\n\"Never!\" declared the youth. \"It comes only to the few, I am sure.\"\n\n\"Yes. Only to the few,\" murmured the Padre.\n\n\"I am certain that it must be a great possession,\" Gaston continued;\n\"and yet--and yet--dear me! life is a splendid thing!\"\n\n\"There are several ways to live it,\" said the Padre.\n\n\"Only one for me!\" cried Gaston. \"Action, men, women, things--to be\nthere, to be known, to play a part, to sit in the front seats; to have\npeople tell one another, 'There goes Gaston Villere!' and to deserve\none's prominence. Why, if I was Padre of Santa Ysabel del Mar for twenty\nyears--no! for one year--do you know what I should have done? Some day\nit would have been too much for me. I should have left these savages\nto a pastor nearer their own level, and I should have ridden down this\ncanyon upon my mule, and stepped on board the barkentine, and gone\nback to my proper sphere. You will understand, sir, that I am far from\nventuring to make any personal comment. I am only thinking what a world\nof difference lies between natures that can feel as alike as we do upon\nso many subjects. Why, not since leaving New Orleans have I met any one\nwith whom I could talk, except of the weather and the brute interests\ncommon to us all. That such a one as you should be here is like a\ndream.\"\n\n\"But it is not a dream,\" said the Padre.\n\n\"And, sir--pardon me if I do say this--are you not wasted at Santa\nYsabel del Mar? I have seen the priests at the other missions. They\nare--the sort of good men that I expected. But are you needed to save\nsuch souls as these?\"\n\n\"There is no aristocracy of souls,\" said the Padre, again whispering.\n\n\"But the body and the mind!\" cried Gaston. \"My God, are they nothing? Do\nyou think that they are given to us for nothing but a trap? You cannot\nteach such a doctrine with your library there. And how about all\nthe cultivated men and women away from whose quickening society the\nbrightest of us grow numb? You have held out. But will it be for long?\nAre you never to save any souls of your own kind? Are not twenty years\nof mesclados enough? No, no!\" finished young Gaston, hot with his\nunforeseen eloquence; \"I should ride down some morning and take the\nbarkentine.\"\n\nPadre Ignacio was silent for a space.\n\n\"I have not offended you?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"No. Anything but that. You are surprised that I should--choose--to stay\nhere. Perhaps you may have wondered how I came to be here at all?\"\n\n\"I had not intended any impertinent--\"\n\n\"Oh no. Put such an idea out of your head, my son. You may remember that\nI was going to make you a confession about my operas. Let us sit down in\nthis shade.\"\n\nSo they picketed the mules near the stream and sat down.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\"You have seen,\" began Padre Ignacio, \"what sort of a man I--was once.\nIndeed, it seems very strange to myself that you should have been here\nnot twenty-four hours yet, and know so much of me. For there has come\nno one else at all\"--the Padre paused a moment and mastered the\nunsteadiness that he had felt approaching in his voice--\"there has been\nno one else to whom I have talked so freely. In my early days I had\nno thought of being a priest. By parents destined me for a diplomatic\ncareer. There was plenty of money and--and all the rest of it; for by\ninheritance came to me the acquaintance of many people whose names\nyou would be likely to have heard of. Cities, people of fashion,\nartists--the whole of it was my element and my choice; and by-and-by I\nmarried, not only where it was desirable, but where I loved. Then\nfor the first time Death laid his staff upon my enchantment, and I\nunderstood many things that had been only words to me hitherto. To have\nbeen a husband for a year, and a father for a moment, and in that moment\nto lose all--this unblinded me. Looking back, it seemed to me that I had\nnever done anything except for myself all my days. I left the world. In\ndue time I became a priest and lived in my own country. But my worldly\nexperience and my secular education had given to my opinions a turn\ntoo liberal for the place where my work was laid. I was soon advised\nconcerning this by those in authority over me. And since they could not\nchange me and I could them, yet wished to work and to teach, the New\nWorld was suggested, and I volunteered to give the rest of my life to\nmissions. It was soon found that some one was needed here, and for this\nlittle place I sailed, and to these humble people I have dedicated my\nservice. They are pastoral creatures of the soil. Their vineyard and\ncattle days are apt to be like the sun and storm around them--strong\nalike in their evil and in their good. All their years they live\nas children--children with men's passions given to them like deadly\nweapons, unable to measure the harm their impulses may bring. Hence,\neven in their crimes, their hearts will generally open soon to the one\ngreat key of love, while civilization makes locks which that key cannot\nalways fit at the first turn. And coming to know this,\" said Padre\nIgnacio, fixing his eyes steadily upon Gaston, \"you will understand\nhow great a privilege it is to help such people, and how the sense\nof something accomplished--under God--should bring Contentment with\nRenunciation.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Gaston Villere. Then, thinking of himself, \"I can understand\nit in a man like you.\"\n\n\"Do not speak of me at all!\" exclaimed the Padre, almost passionately.\n\"But pray Heaven that you may find the thing yourself some\nday--Contentment with Renunciation--and never let it go.\"\n\n\"Amen!\" said Gaston, strangely moved.\n\n\"That is the whole of my story,\" the priest continued, with no more\nof the recent stress in his voice. \"And now I have talked to you about\nmyself quite enough. But you must have my confession.\" He had now\nresumed entirely his half-playful tone. \"I was just a little mistaken,\nyou see--too self-reliant, perhaps--when I supposed, in my first\nmissionary ardor, that I could get on without any remembrance of the\nworld at all. I found that I could not. And so I have taught the old\noperas to my choir--such parts of them as are within our compass and\nsuitable for worship. And certain of my friends still alive at home are\ngood enough to remember this taste of mine and to send me each year some\nof the new music that I should never hear of otherwise. Then we study\nthese things also. And although our organ is a miserable affair, Felipe\nmanages very cleverly to make it do. And while the voices are singing\nthese operas, especially the old ones, what harm is there if sometimes\nthe priest is thinking of something else? So there's my confession! And\nnow, whether Trovatore is come or not, I shall not allow you to leave us\nuntil you have taught all you know of it to Felipe.\"\n\nThe new opera, however, had duly arrived. And as he turned its pages\nPadre Ignacio was quick to seize at once upon the music that could be\ntaken into his church. Some of it was ready fitted. By that afternoon\nFelipe and his choir could have rendered \"Ah! se l' error t' ingombra\"\nwithout slip or falter.\n\nThose were strange rehearsals of Il Trovatore upon this California\nshore. For the Padre looked to Gaston to say when they went too fast\nor too slow, and to correct their emphasis. And since it was hot, the\nlittle Erard piano was carried each day out into the mission garden.\nThere, in the cloisters among the jessamine, the orange blossoms,\nthe oleanders, in the presence of the round yellow hills and the blue\ntriangle of sea, the Miserere was slowly learned. The Mexicans and\nIndians gathered, swarthy and black-haired, around the tinkling\ninstrument that Felipe played; and presiding over them were young Gaston\nand the pale Padre, walking up and down the paths, beating time or\nsinging now one part and now another. And so it was that the wild cattle\non the uplands would hear Trovatore hummed by a passing vaquero, while\nthe same melody was filling the streets of the far-off world.\n\nFor three days Gaston Villere remained at Santa Ysabel del Mar; and\nthough not a word of restlessness came from him, his host could read San\nFrancisco and the gold-mines in his countenance. No, the young man could\nnot have stayed here for twenty years! And the Padre forbore urging his\nguest to extend his visit.\n\n\"But the world is small,\" the guest declared at parting. \"Some day it\nwill not be able to spare you any longer. And then we are sure to meet.\nBut you shall hear from me soon, at any rate.\"\n\nAgain, as upon the first evening, the two exchanged a few courtesies,\nmore graceful and particular than we, who have not time, and fight no\nduels, find worth a man's while at the present day. For duels are gone,\nwhich is a very good thing, and with them a certain careful politeness,\nwhich is a pity; but that is the way in the eternal profit and loss. So\nyoung Gaston rode northward out of the mission, back to the world and\nhis fortune; and the Padre stood watching the dust after the rider had\npassed from sight. Then he went into his room with a drawn face. But\nappearances at least had been kept up to the end; the youth would never\nknow of the elder man's unrest.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTemptation had arrived with Gaston, but was destined to make a longer\nstay at Santa Ysabel del Mar. Yet it was perhaps a week before the\npriest knew this guest was come to abide with him. The guest could be\ndiscreet, could withdraw, was not at first importunate.\n\nSail away on the barkentine? A wild notion, to be sure! although fit\nenough to enter the brain of such a young scape-grace. The Padre shook\nhis head and smiled affectionately when he thought of Gaston Villere.\nThe youth's handsome, reckless countenance would shine out, smiling, in\nhis memory, and he repeated Auber's old remark, \"Is it the good Lord,\nor is it merely the devil, that always makes me have a weakness for\nrascals?\"\n\nSail away on the barkentine! Imagine taking leave of the people here--of\nFelipe! In what words should he tell the boy to go on industriously with\nhis music? No, this was not imaginable! The mere parting alone would\nmake it for ever impossible to think of such a thing. \"And then,\" he\nsaid to himself each new morning, when he looked out at the ocean, \"I\nhave given to them my life. One does not take back a gift.\"\n\nPictures of his departure began to shine and melt in his drifting fancy.\nHe saw himself explaining to Felipe that now his presence was wanted\nelsewhere; that than would come a successor to take care of Santa\nYsabel--a younger man, more useful, and able to visit sick people at a\ndistance.\n\n\"For I am old now. I should not be long has in any case.\" He stopped\nand pressed his hands together; he had caught his Temptation in the very\nact. Now he sat staring at his Temptation's face, close to him, while\nthen in the triangle two ships went sailing by.\n\nOne morning Felipe told him that the barkentine was here on its return\nvoyage south. \"Indeed.\" said the Padre, coldly. \"The things are ready to\ngo, I think.\" For the vessel called for mail and certain boxes that the\nmission sent away. Felipe left the room in wonder at the Padre's manner.\nBut the priest was laughing secretly to see how little it was to him\nwhere the barkentine was, or whether it should be coming or going. But\nin the afternoon, at his piano, he found himself saying, \"Other ships\ncall here, at any rate.\" And then for the first time he prayed to be\ndelivered from his thoughts. Yet presently he left his seat and looked\nout of the window for a sight of the barkentine; but it was gone.\n\nThe season of the wine-making passed, and the preserving of all the\nfruits that the mission fields grew. Lotions and medicines was distilled\nfrom garden herbs. Perfume was manufactured from the petals of flowers\nand certain spices, and presents of it despatched to San Fernando and\nVentura, and to friends at other places; for the Padre had a special\nreceipt. As the time ran on, two or three visitors passed a night with\nhim; and presently there was a word at various missions that Padre\nIgnacio had begun to show his years. At Santa Ysabel del Mar they\nwhispered, \"The Padre is not well.\" Yet he rode a great deal over the\nhills by himself, and down the canyon very often, stopping where he had\nsat with Gaston, to sit alone and look up and down, now at the hills\nabove, and now at the ocean below. Among his parishioners he had certain\ntroubles to soothe, certain wounds to heal; a home from which he was\nable to drive jealousy; a girl whom he bade her lover set right. But all\nsaid, \"The Padre is unwell.\" And Felipe told them that the music seemed\nnothing to him any more; he never asked for his Dixit Dominus nowadays.\nThen for a short time he was really in bed, feverish with the two voices\nthat spoke to him without ceasing. \"You have given your life,\" said one\nvoice. \"And, therefore,\" said the other, \"have earned the right to go\nhome and die.\" \"You are winning better rewards in the service of God,\"\nsaid the first voice. \"God can be better served in other places,\"\nanswered the second. As he lay listening he saw Seville again, and the\ntrees of Aranhal, where he had been born. The wind was blowing through\nthem, and in their branches he could hear the nightingales. \"Empty!\nEmpty!\" he said, aloud. And he lay for two days and nights hearing\nthe wind and the nightingales in the far trees of Aranhal. But Felipe,\nwatching, only heard the Padre crying through the hours, \"Empty! Empty!\"\n\nThen the wind in the trees died down, and the Padre could get out of\nbed, and soon be in the garden. But the voices within him still talked\nall the while as he sat watching the sails when they passed between the\nheadlands. Their words, falling for ever the same way, beat his spirit\nsore, like blows upon flesh already bruised. If he could only change\nwhat they said, he would rest.\n\n\"Has the Padre any mall for Santa Barbara?\" asked Felipe. \"The ship\nbound southward should be here to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I will attend to it,\" said the priest, not moving. And Felipe stole\naway.\n\nAt Felipe's words the voices had stopped, as a clock finishes striking.\nSilence, strained like expectation, filled the Padre's soul. But in\nplace of the voices came old sights of home again, the waving trees at\nAranhal; then it would be Rachel for a moment, declaiming tragedy while\na houseful of faces that he knew by name watched her; and through all\nthe panorama rang the pleasant laugh of Gaston. For a while in the\nevening the Padre sat at his Erard playing Trovatore. Later, in his\nsleepless bed he lay, saying now and then: \"To die at home! Surely I\nmay be granted at least this.\" And he listened for the inner voices. But\nthey were not speaking any more, and the black hole of silence grew\nmore dreadful to him than their arguments. Then the dawn came in at\nhis window, and he lay watching its gray grow warm into color, until\nsuddenly he sprang from his bed and looked at the sea. Blue it lay,\nsapphire-hued and dancing with points of gold, lovely and luring as\na charm; and over its triangle the south-bound ship was approaching.\nPeople were on board who in a few weeks would be sailing the Atlantic,\nwhile he would stand here looking out of this same window. \"Merciful\nGod!\" he cried, sinking on his knees. \"Heavenly Father, Thou seest this\nevil in my heart! Thou knowest that my weak hand cannot pluck it out! My\nstrength is breaking, and still Thou makest my burden heavier than I\ncan bear.\" He stopped, breathless and trembling. The same visions was\nflitting across his closed eyes; the same silence gaped like a dry\ncrater in his soul. \"There is no help in earth or heaven,\" he said, very\nquietly; and he dressed himself.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nIt was still so early that few of the Indians were stirring, and one\nof these saddled the Padre's mule. Felipe was not yet awake, and for a\nmoment it came in the priest's mind to open the boy's door softly, look\nat him once more, and come away. But this he did not, nor even take a\nfarewell glance at the church and organ. He bade nothing farewell, but,\nturning his back upon his room and his garden, rode down the canyon.\n\nThe vessel lay at anchor, and some one had landed from ha and was\ntalking with other men on the shore. Seeing the priest slowly coming,\nthis stranger approached to meet him.\n\n\"You are connected with the mission here?\" he inquired.\n\n\"I--am.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is with you that Gaston Villere stopped?\"\n\n\"The young man from New Orleans? Yes. I am Padre Ignacio.\"\n\n\"Then you'll save me a journey. I promised him to deliver these into\nyour own hands.\"\n\nThe stranger gave them to him.\n\n\"A bag of gold-dust,\" he explained, \"and a letter. I wrote it at his\ndictation while he was dying. He lived hardly an hour afterward.\"\n\nThe stranger bowed his head at the stricken cry which his news elicited\nfrom the priest, who, after a few moments' vain effort to speak, opened\nthe letter and read:\n\nMy dear Friend,--It is through no man's fault but mine that I have come\nto this. I have had plenty of luck, and lately have been counting the\ndays until I should return home. But last night heavy news from New\nOrleans reached me, and I tore the pressed flower to pieces. Under the\nfirst smart and humiliation of broken faith I was rendered desperate,\nand picked a needless quarrel. Thank God, it is I who have the\npunishment. By dear friend, as I lie here, leaving a world that no man\never loved more, I have come to understand you. For you and your mission\nhave been much in my thoughts. It is strange how good can be done, not\nat the time when it is intended, but afterward; and you have done this\ngood to me. I say over your words, \"Contentment with Renunciation,\" and\nbelieve that at this last hour I have gained something like what you\nwould wish me to feel. For I do not think that I desire it otherwise\nnow. My life would never have been of service, I am afraid. You am the\nlast person in this world who has spoken serious words to me, and I want\nyou to know that now at length I value the peace of Santa Ysabel as I\ncould never have done but for seeing your wisdom and goodness. You spoke\nof a new organ for your church. Take the gold-dust that will reach you\nwith this, and do what you will with it. Let me at least in dying have\nhelped some one. And since them is no aristocracy in souls--you said\nthat to me; do you remember?--perhaps you will say a mass for this\ndeparting soul of mine. I only wish, must my body must go under ground\nin a strange country, that it might have been at Santa Ysabel did Mar,\nwhere your feet would often pass.\n\n\"'At Santa Ysabel del Mar, where your feet would often pass.'\" The\npriest repeated this final sentence aloud, without being aware of it.\n\n\"Those are the last words he ever spoke,\" said the stranger, \"except\nbidding me good-by.\"\n\n\"You knew him well, then?\"\n\n\"No; not until after he was hurt. I'm the man he quarreled with.\"\n\nThe priest looked at the ship that would sail onward this afternoon.\n\nThen a smile of great beauty passed over his face, and he addressed the\nstrange. \"I thank you. You will never know what you have done for me.\"\n\n\"It is nothing,\" answered the stranger, awkwardly. \"He told me you set\ngreat store on a new organ.\"\n\nPadre Ignacio turned away from the ship and rode back through the gorge.\nWhen he had reached the shady place where once he had sat with Gaston\nVillere, he dismounted and again sat there, alone by the stream, for\nmany hours. Long rides and outings had been lately so much his custom\nthat no one thought twice of his absence; and when he resumed to the\nmission in the afternoon, the Indian took his mule, and he went to his\nseat in the garden. But it was with another look that he watched the\nsea; and presently the sail moved across the blue triangle, and soon it\nhad rounded the headland.\n\nWith it departed Temptation for ever.\n\nGaston's first coming was in the Padre's mind; and, as the vespers bell\nbegan to ring in the cloistered silence, a fragment of Auber's plaintive\ntune passed like a sigh across his memory.\n\n[Musical score appears here]\n\nFor the repose of Gaston's young, world-loving spirit, they sang all\nthat he had taught them of Il Trovatore.\n\nAfter this day, Felipe and all those who knew and loved the Padre best,\nsaw serenity had returned to his features; but for some reason they\nbegan to watch those features with more care.\n\n\"Still,\" they said, \"he is not old.\" And as the months went by they\nwould repeat: \"We shall have him yet for many years.\"\n\nThus the season rolled round, bringing the time for the expected\nmessages from the world. Padre Ignacio was wont to sit in his garden,\nwaiting for the ship, as of old.\n\n\"As of old,\" they said, cheerfully, who saw him. But Renunciation with\nContentment they could not see; it was deep down in his silent and\nthanked heart.\n\nOne day Felipe went to call him from his garden seat, wondering why the\nringing of the bell had not brought him to vespers. Breviary in lap, and\nhands folded upon it, the Padre sat among his flowers, looking at the\nsea. Out there amid the sapphire-blue, tranquil and white, gleamed the\nsails of the barkentine. It had brought him a new message, not from this\nworld; and Padre Ignacio was slowly borne in from the garden, while the\nmission-bell tolled for the passing of a human soul.","title":"Padre Ignacio; Or, The Song of Temptation","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":9579}