II


1

Awakened by that daily cruelty, the advent of hot water, Edward Pierson
lay in his chintz-curtained room, fancying himself back in London. A
wild bee hunting honey from the bowl of flowers on the window-sill, and
the scent of sweetbrier, shattered that illusion. He drew the curtain,
and, kneeling on the window-seat thrust his head out into the morning.
The air was intoxicatingly sweet. Haze clung over the river and the
woods beyond; the lawn sparkled with dew, and two wagtails strutted in
the dewy sunshine. 'Thank God for loveliness!' he thought. 'Those poor
boys at the front!' And kneeling with his elbows on the sill, he began
to say his prayers. The same feeling which made him beautify his church,
use vestments, good music, and incense, filled him now. God was in the
loveliness of His world, as well as in His churches. One could worship
Him in a grove of beech trees, in a beautiful garden, on a high hill,
by the banks of a bright river. God was in the rustle of the leaves, and
the hum of a bee, in the dew on the grass, and the scent of flowers;
God was in everything! And he added to his usual prayer this whisper: "I
give Thee thanks for my senses, O Lord. In all of us, keep them bright,
and grateful for beauty." Then he remained motionless, prey to a sort
of happy yearning very near, to melancholy. Great beauty ever had that
effect on him. One could capture so little of it--could never enjoy it
enough! Who was it had said not long ago: "Love of beauty is really only
the sex instinct, which nothing but complete union satisfies." Ah! yes,
George--Gratian's husband. George Laird! And a little frown came between