Then a wilder mood came upon him. The end of the Kloster was decreed, that was clear. The props were removed, the pillars loosened, the foundations weakened. When he was gone no one would be left to cherish the old buildings. Curiosity-seekers, long the bane of his existence, would carry away the treasures of books and curios, the wooden blocks upon which saintly heads had rested, the elaborate charts penned by devoted fingers. An insistent antiquarian often visited Grandfather—he would come and take that which he coveted and perhaps sell his loot, making capital of the things of the saints! There was no rational explanation of earthly affairs; reward was not given to merit, nor peace of mind to those who deserved it. It would be well to make an end.
His anger quickened. The Kloster was his; even in human law he might claim it, might sell it, do as he liked with it, as the last Seventh-Day Baptist. After him there would be no one who had any real claim upon it.
Suddenly he had a vision. He saw clean, merciful, leaping flames doing quickly what time would do gradually. The suggestion seemed to come miraculously and with it a plan for its carrying-out. There was an angle where the Saal and Saron joined, where a pile of kindling could be laid. He felt an overwhelming weariness with life and an eager desire to be rid of it. He began to plan cunningly.
In the night he took from his woodbox an armful of fine kindling and carried it up the stone steps and round the meeting-house to the spot which he had selected. The night was cloudy and there was not a sound, not even the distant baying of a dog or the echo of footsteps. He returned and secured two matches, the small can from which he filled his brass lamp, and also the ponderous key. He would look for the last time upon the treasures which he loved. He opened the door of the meeting-room in the Saal. The old benches, the table with its superimposed reading-stand which formed the pulpit, the faded charts on the wall—he saw them clearly, though their outlines were almost invisible. He repeated to himself the inscription on one of the charts, then he stood trembling and sighing.
He walked through the meeting-room to the kitchen where of old meals had been prepared for visiting brethren and their families who came to spend days in worship—he groaned as he thought of their multitude, a far greater multitude in his dreams than they had been in reality.
The interior of Saron was black, but he needed no light. He touched lovingly an ancient chair, an old loom, a row of pewter spoons, a hand-woven basket. He climbed last of all to the matin room. Now he was breathing heavily. The thought of Amos had returned, filling him with rage. Matthew and Ellen were children, his children, but Amos was not. He hoped that the forthcoming tragedy would haunt Amos all his days. He meant to come back to this room and await his end.
He went trembling down the steep steps and out to the angle of the wall where he had laid the little woodpile. He struck a match and its light showed faintly. He had selected the spot cunningly; it was invisible from all points except a field, and in this field, sown with winter wheat, there was certain to be no observer. The fire would not be discovered until the flames leaped through the roof and the opposite wall. When he tried to light the wood it did not burn, and he remembered his coal-oil and lifted the can.
But before he had tilted it Grandfather paused. He had given the hours of a long life, not to dreams of arson and self-destruction, but to meditations upon the majesty and the goodness of God. His visit to the matin room had started a familiar train of thought. He ceased suddenly to hear the crackling of flames and the thunder of falling beams and rafters and thick old walls; he heard the sweet and heavenly singing of women far above his head, the ethereal sounds issuing from fasting bodies. He forgot his rage, he forgot Ellen and Matthew and Amos, he forgot himself. His wrongs ceased to be real; the realities were white-robed choirs, a heavenly peace of mind. He stood listening.
After a long time he carried the oil can and the wood back to the cottage and put them in their places. Then he opened the window and sat down. It was almost midnight, the hour when Father Friedsam had been accustomed to waken his spiritual children so that they might worship their Creator. With folded hands and monkish mien Grandfather rose and stepped out of his cottage and up the stone steps to the meeting-house and there ascended the pulpit platform. The room which he saw was not this dim, low-ceiled room of his ministry; it was a loftier room with a latticed gallery for singers. He saw before him an entering procession, and alone in the darkness he lifted his voice and praised God with a psalm.