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Chapter XL
Full of that vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next
morning, Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his faith in last night's
enjoyments a little shaken by cool daylight and the return to every-
day duties and occupations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at
the appointed place. And being careful not to awaken any of the little
household, who were yet resting from their unusual fatigues, Kit left
his money on the chimney-piece, with an inscription in chalk calling
his mother's attention to the circumstance, and informing her that it
came from her dutiful son; and went his way, with a heart something
heavier than his pockets, but free from any very great oppression
notwithstanding.
Oh these holidays! why will they leave us some regret? why cannot we
push them back, only a week or two in our memories, so as to put
them at once at that convenient distance whence they may be
regarded either with a calm indifference or a pleasant effort of
recollection! why will they hang about us, like the flavour of
yesterday's wine, suggestive of headaches and lassitude, and those
good intentions for the future, which, under the earth, form the
everlasting pavement of a large estate, and, upon it, usually endure
until dinner-time or thereabouts!
Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that Barbara's
mother was disposed to be cross, or that she slightly underrated
Astley's, and thought the clown was older than they had taken him to
be last night? Kit was not surprised to hear her say so - not he. He
had already had a misgiving that the inconstant actors in that
dazzling vision had been doing the same thing the night before last,
and would do it again that night, and the next, and for weeks and
months to come, though he would not be there. Such is the difference
between yesterday and today. We are all going to the play, or coming
home from it.
However, the Sun himself is weak when he first rises, and gathers
strength and courage as the day gets on. By degrees, they began to
recall circumstances more and more pleasant in their nature, until,
what between talking, walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in
such good heart, that Barbara's mother declared she never felt less
tired or in better spirits. And so said Kit. Barbara had been silent all
the way, but she said so too. Poor little Barbara! She was very quiet.
They were at home in such good time that Kit had rubbed down the
pony and made him as spruce as a race-horse, before Mr Garland
came down to breakfast; which punctual and industrious conduct the
old lady, and the old gentleman, and Mr Abel, highly extolled. At his
usual hour (or rather at his usual minute and second, for he was the
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