When Amos had gone the old man felt lonely. He made his way after a while in the cool rain to the Saal and Saron, and walked through the buildings, peopling them with figures. The stairs leading to the second floor of Saron, were narrow and steep and he took them slowly, trying to find a hold for his cane and not daring to cling to the ancient rope which served as a rail, for fear that he might pull down the whole structure upon his head.
In the second story his mood brightened. Here the sisters had sat with their spinning-wheels and looms; here they had sung their ethereal matins, and had prayed for their beloved Father Friedsam; here they had talked of the mystical love of the Lord for his Sweet Flowers. An unsympathetic person would have shivered at the damp, gravelike air, at the narrowness of the tiny rooms, and at the ancient odors which suggested decay and dreariness; and an imaginative person would have remembered all the inevitable physical and mental abnormalities of conventual life.
But Grandfather was cheered and not depressed. In a sudden increase of mental vigor he began to plan once more the rehabilitation of the Kloster. Here should be placed a supporting beam; here fresh plaster, where the old plaster of clay and grass had crumbled away, leaving exposed the slanting rafters held together by wooden pegs. Here was a large space, newly opened like the hollow in which Amos had found "The Mystic Dove," and he began to explore the depths with his stick. He had gone over the old buildings many times, but never without hope of finding some writing which had been overlooked, and had even stared at the graves of Father Friedsam and Brother Jabez wondering whether they might not contain a written message for the present backsliding generation.
When his cane touched a small movable object, he forgot that he had often prayed for exactly such an experience, and he was amazed and excited. He knelt down and thrust his hand into the opening. A book! Many books! His old cheeks quivered and his beard trembled upon his aged breast. He pressed his body against the crumbling plaster so as to reach in still farther, reproaching himself because he was surprised at a blessing for which he had so ardently prayed. A library of books—other "Mystic Doves" and "Sweet Lilies!"
He drew them out, one by one. But the binding was not of musty leather, but of cheap modern cloth; the language was neither German nor Latin, and there was no musty odor of sanctity—what could they be? Still kneeling painfully, he opened the uppermost of the pile which he had made and began to read.
"Hitherto he had never compromised himself in his relations with women. As he had often said of himself, he had inspired no great passion, but a multitude of caprices. But now he had begun to feel that it is one love and not twenty that makes life memorable; he wished to redeem his life from intrigues, and here was the very chance he was waiting for. But habit had rendered him cowardly, and this affair frightened him almost as much as marriage had done. To go away with her, he felt, was equivalent to marrying her. His life would never be the same again. The list would be lost to him forever; no more lists for him. He would be known as the man who lived with—lived with whom? A girl picked up in the suburbs who sang rather prettily."
Grandfather turned fifty pages or so.
"He was the young poet whom all Paris fell in love with. He came up to Paris with a married woman; I think they came from Angoulême. I haven't read Lost Illusions for twenty years. She and he were the stars in the society of some provincial town, but when they arrived in Paris each thought the other very common and countrified. He compares her with Madame d'Espard; she compares him with Rastignac; Balzac completes the picture with a touch of pure genius—they forgot that six months would transform them both into exquisite Parisians!"
Grandfather turned another hundred pages.
"'Dearest, we cannot spend the night driving about London.'