From the steaming coffee-shed he made his way through a street filled with people and bordered with pitiful little heaps of shabby household goods like that which he had seen from Krylenko’s window the night before. He passed Hennessey’s place and, crossing the railroad tracks, came within the area of the Mills. It was silent here. Even the trolleys had ceased to run since one car had had its windows shattered. Beyond this he came to the great iron fence that shut in the park of Shane’s Castle. At the gates he turned in, following the drive that ran between rows of dead and dying Norway spruce up to the house that crowned the hill. It was silent in the park and the falling snow half veiled the distant gables and odd Gothic windows of the big house. Among the dead trees it occurred to him that there was a peace here which did not exist elsewhere in the whole Town. It was an enchanted place where a battered old woman, whom he had seen but once or twice, lay dying.
Following the drive, he passed the wrought-iron portico and the little cast-iron Eros who held a ring in his outstretched hand and served as a hitching-post. The towering cedars that gave the place a name—Cypress Hill—which all the world had long ago forgotten, loomed black and melancholy against the sky. And, turning the corner, he came suddenly within sight of the stables.
Before the door an old negro swept away the falling snow with a worn and stubby broom. He did not hear the approach of Philip, for he was deaf and the snow muffled the sound of footsteps. It was only when Philip said “Good-morning” that he turned his head and, grinning, said, “You must be Mr. Downes.”
“Yes.”
“The room’s all ready for you.”
The old man, muttering to himself, led the way. At the top of the stairs, he said, “If I’d knowed you was a-comin’ I’d a-had a fire.”
The place was all swept and in order and in one corner stood all the things which Mary Conyngham had carried there from Krylenko’s room. The sight of them touched him with emotion, as if something of Mary herself clung to them. He wanted to see her more than he wanted anything in the world. He stood looking out of the window while the old nigger waited, watching him. He was sure that in some way she could wipe out the sickening memory of that awful scene. The window gave out over the Mills, which lay spread out, cold and desolate and silent, save for the distant K section, where smoke had begun to drift from the chimneys. He would paint the scene from this window, in all its dreary bleakness—in grays and whites and cold blues, with the faintest tinge of pink. It was like a hell in which the fires had suddenly burned to cold ashes. No, he must see Mary. He had to see her. He couldn’t go on like this. It wasn’t possible for any human creature to be thirsty for so long—thirsty for peace and honesty and understanding.
He began to see himself in the mawkish light of one who suffered and was put upon, and what had been impossible before began in the light of self-pity to seem possible.
He had (he knew) to go back to the slate-colored house. Turning, he said to the old nigger, “I’m coming back,” and then halting, he asked, “How’s Mrs. Shane?”
“She ain’t no better, sir. She’s dying, and nothin’ kin save her.” Suddenly the black face lighted up. “But Miss Lily’s come back. She came back last night.”