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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
183
See
how
friendly
together
are
the
fire
and
the
shaded
lamp;
both
have
their
part
alike
in
the
illumining
and
warming
of
the
room.
As
the
fire
purrs
and
softly
crackles,
so
does
my
lamp
at
intervals
utter
a
little
gurgling
sound
when
the
oil
flows
to
the
wick,
and
custom
has
made
this
a
pleasure
to
me.
Another
sound,
blending
with
both,
is
the
gentle
ticking
of
the
clock.
I
could
not
endure
one
of
those
bustling
little
clocks
which
tick
like
a
fever
pulse,
and
are
only
fit
for
a
stockbroker's
office;
mine
hums
very
slowly,
as
though
it
savoured
the
minutes
no
less
than
I
do;
and
when
it
strikes,
the
little
voice
is
silver-sweet,
telling
me
without
sadness
that
another
hour
of
life
is
reckoned,
another
of
the
priceless
hours--
"Quae
nobis
pereunt
et
imputantur."
After
extinguishing
the
lamp,
and
when
I
have
reached
the
door,
I
always
turn
to
look
back;
my
room
is
so
cosily
alluring
in
the
light
of
the
last
gleeds,
that
I
do
not
easily
move
away.
The
warm
glow
is
reflected
on
shining
wood,
on
my
chair,
my
writing-table,
on
the
bookcases,
and
from
the
gilt
title
of
some
stately
volume;
it
illumes
this
picture,
it
half
disperses
the
gloom
on
that.
I
could
imagine
that,
as
in
a
fairy
tale,
the
books
do
but
await
my
departure
to
begin
talking
among
themselves.
A
little
tongue
of
flame
shoots
up
from
a
dying
ember;
shadows
shift
upon
the
ceiling
and
the
walls.
With
a
sigh
of
utter
contentment,
I
go
forth,
and
shut
the
door
softly.
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