The Grey Room by Eden Phillpotts


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Page 72


Sir Walter persisted in his purpose and went to Florence. He
believed that here Mary might find distractions and novelties to
awaken interest which would come freshly into her life without the
pain and poignancy of any recollection to lessen the work of peace.
For himself he only desired to see her returning to content.
Happiness he knew must be a condition far removed from her spirit
for many days.

They stood one evening on the Piazza of Michelangelo and saw
Florence, like a city of dim, red gold extended beneath them. The
setting sunlight wove an enchantment over towers and roofs. It
spread a veil of ineffable brightness upon the city and tinged
green Arno also, where the river wound through the midst.

Sir Walter was quietly happy, because he knew that in a fortnight
his friends, Ernest and Nelly Travers, would be at Florence. Mary,
too, prepared to welcome them gladly, for her father's sake. He
left his daughter largely undisturbed, and while they took their
walks together, the old man, to whom neither music nor pictures
conveyed much significance, let her wander at will, and the more
readily because he found that art was beginning to exercise a
precious influence over Mary's mind. There was none to guide her
studies, but she pursued them with a plan of her own, and though
at first the effort sometimes left her weary, yet she persisted
until she began to perceive at least the immensity of the knowledge
she desired to acquire.

Music soothed her mind; painting offered an interest, part sensuous,
part intellectual. Perhaps she loved music best at first, since it
brought a direct anodyne. In the sound of music she could bear to
think of her brief love story. She even made her father come and
listen presently to things that she began to value.

Their minds inevitably proceeded by different channels of thought,
and while she strove resolutely to occupy herself with the new
interests, and put away the agony of the past, till thinking was
bearable again and a road to peace under her feet once more, Sir
Walter seldom found himself passing many hours without recurrence
of painful memories and a sustained longing to strip the darkness
which buried them. To his forthright and simple intelligence,
mystery was hateful, and the reflection that his home must for
ever hold a profound and appalling mystery often thrust itself
upon his thoughts, and even inclined him, in some moods, to see
Chadlands no more. Yet a natural longing to return to the old
environment, in which he could move with ease and comfort,
gradually mastered him, and as the spring advanced he often
sighed for Devonshire, yet wondered how he could do so. Then
would return the gloomy history of the winter rolling over his
spirit like a cloud, and the thought of going home again grew
distasteful.

Mary, however, knew her father well enough, and at this lustrous
hour, while Florence stretched beneath them in its quiet, evening
beauty, she declared that they must not much longer delay their
return.

"Plenty of time," he said. "I am not too old to learn, I find,
and a man would indeed be a great fool if he could not learn in
such a place as this. But though art can never mean much to me now,
your case is different, and I am thankful to know that these things
will be a great addition and interest to your future life. I'm a
Philistine, and shall always so remain, but I'm a repentant one.
I see my mistake too late."

"It's a new world, father," she said, "and it has done a great deal
for an unhappy woman--not only in taking my thoughts off myself,
but in lessening my suffering, too. I do not know why, or how, but
music, and these great, solemn pictures painted by dead men, all
touch my thoughts of dear Tom. I seem to see that there are so
many more mighty ones dead than living. And yet not dead. They
live in what they have made. And Tom lives in what he made--that
was my love for him and his for me. He grows nearer and dearer
than ever when I hear beautiful music. I can better bear to think
of him at such times, and it will always help me to remember him."

"God bless art if it does so much," he said. "We come to it as
little children, and I shall always be a child and never understand,
but for you the valuable message will be received. May life never
turn you away from these things in years to come."

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 5th Dec 2025, 2:43