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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
75
V.
On
Sunday
I
come
down
later
than
usual;
I
make
a
change
of
dress,
for
it
is
fitting
that
the
day
of
spiritual
rest
should
lay
aside
the
livery
of
the
laborious
week.
For
me,
indeed,
there
is
no
labour
at
any
time,
but
nevertheless
does
Sunday
bring
me
repose.
I
share
in
the
common
tranquillity;
my
thought
escapes
the
workaday
world
more
completely
than
on
other
days.
It
is
not
easy
to
see
how
this
house
of
mine
can
make
to
itself
a
Sunday
quiet,
for
at
all
times
it
is
well-nigh
soundless;
yet
I
find
a
difference.
My
housekeeper
comes
into
the
room
with
her
Sunday
smile;
she
is
happier
for
the
day,
and
the
sight
of
her
happiness
gives
me
pleasure.
She
speaks,
if
possible,
in
a
softer
voice;
she
wears
a
garment
which
reminds
me
that
there
is
only
the
lightest
and
cleanest
housework
to
be
done.
She
will
go
to
church,
morning
and
evening,
and
I
know
that
she
is
better
for
it.
During
her
absence
I
sometimes
look
into
rooms
which
on
other
days
I
never
enter;
it
is
merely
to
gladden
my
eyes
with
the
shining
cleanliness,
the
perfect
order,
I
am
sure
to
find
in
the
good
woman's
domain.
But
for
that
spotless
and
sweet-smelling
kitchen,
what
would
it
avail
me
to
range
my
books
and
hang
my
pictures?
All
the
tranquillity
of
my
life
depends
upon
the
honest
care
of
this
woman
who
lives
and
works
unseen.
And
I
am
sure
that
the
money
I
pay
her
is
the
least
part
of
her
reward.
She
is
such
an
old-fashioned
person
that
the
mere
discharge
of
what
she
deems
a
duty
is
in
itself
an
end
to
her,
and
the
work
of
her
hands
in
itself
a
satisfaction,
a
pride.
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