The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories, Owen Wister [easy novels to read txt] 📗

you will save me a journey. I promised him to deliver these into your own hands.”

The stranger gave them to him.

“A bag of gold-dust,” he explained, “and a letter. I wrote it from his dictation while he was dying. He lived scarcely an hour afterwards.”

The stranger bowed his head at the stricken cry which his news elicited from the priest, who, after a few moments vain effort to speak, opened the letter and read:

“MY DEAR FRIEND,—It is through no man's fault but mine that I have come to this. I have had plenty of luck, and lately have been counting the days until I should return home. But last night heavy news from New Orleans reached me, and I tore the pressed flower to pieces. Under the first smart and humiliation of broken faith I was rendered desperate, and picked a needless quarrel. Thank God, it is I who have the punishment. My dear friend, as I lie here, leaving a world that no man ever loved more, I have come to understand you. For you and your mission have been much in my thoughts. It is strange how good can be done, not at the time when it is intended, but afterwards; and you have done this good to me. I say over your words, Contentment with renunciation, and believe that at this last hour I have gained something like what you would wish me to feel. For I do not think that I desire it otherwise now. My life would never have been of service, I am afraid. You are the last person in this world who has spoken serious words to me, and I want you to know that now at length I value the peace of Santa Ysabel as I could never have done but for seeing your wisdom and goodness. You spoke of a new organ for your church. Take the gold-dust that will reach you with this, and do what you will with it. Let me at least in dying have helped some one. And since there is no aristocracy in souls—you said that to me; do you remember?—perhaps you will say a mass for this departing soul of mine. I only wish, since my body must go underground in a strange country, that it might have been at Santa Ysabel del Mar, where your feet would often pass.”

“'At Santa Ysabel del Mar, where your feet would often pass.'” The priest repeated this final sentence aloud, without being aware of it.

“Those are the last words he ever spoke,” said the stranger, “except bidding good-bye to me.”

“You knew him well, then?”

“No; not until after he was hurt. I'm the man he quarrelled with.”

The priest looked at the ship that would sail onward this afternoon. Then a smile of great beauty passed over his face, and he addressed the stranger. “I thank you,” said he. “You will never know what you have done for me.”

“It is nothing,” answered the stranger, awkwardly. “He told me you set great store on a new organ.”

Padre Ignazio turned away from the ship and rode back through the gorge. When he reached the shady place where once he had sat with Gaston Villere, he dismounted and again sat there, alone by the stream, for many hours. Long rides and outings had been lately so much his custom, that no one thought twice of his absence; and when he returned to the mission in the afternoon, the Indian took his mule, and he went to his seat in the garden. But it was with another look that he watched the sea; and presently the sail moved across the blue triangle, and soon it had rounded the headland. Gaston's first coming was in the padre's mind; and as the vespers bell began to ring in the cloistered silence, a fragment of Auber's plaintive tune passed like a sigh across his memory:

[Musical Score Appears Here]

But for the repose of Gaston's soul they sang all that he had taught them of “Il Trovatore.”

Thus it happened that Padre Ignazio never went home, but remained cheerful master of the desires to do so that sometimes visited him, until the day came when he was called altogether away from this world, and “passed beyond these voices, where is peace.”

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories, by Owen Wister