Chapter 19 Chapter Fifteen I Start Again

Mr. Dick and I soon became good friends.We used to fly that big kite together after he finished his day at work.He sat for long hours every day writing his papers, and though he worked hard, never made any progress, because sooner or later Charles I would have to get involved, and he had to throw them away and write them again.His patience and hope in enduring this constant disappointment, his certain false and mild understanding of Charles I's deeds, his feeble efforts to get Charles I out of the way, and Charles I's attempt to get mixed up in the petition The inevitability of both impresses me.Even if the papers were written, what would Mr. Dick hope would result?Where does he think the petition should be sent?Or what effect did he think the submission should have?I don't believe he knew any more about it than anyone else.There was no need for him to trouble himself with these questions, for it was certain that the petition would never be written, if anything could be certain in the world.

When the kite is flying high, look at him flying the kite, that is really touching.He once told me in his bedroom that he believed that the kite would spread the message posted on it, and that the message was nothing more than pages of aborted papers, and he himself may sometimes feel that this idea is just fantasy. , but after coming outside, looking up at the tall kite and feeling it being pulled in his hand, it is no longer just a fantasy.He had never been so peaceful as at that time.As I sat beside him at dusk on a green hillside and watched him gaze at the kite soaring high in the calm sky, I often thought that the kite would keep those confused thoughts out of his head, And be able to send those thoughts to heaven (my thoughts are so naive).As he wound up the line, the kite fell, fell, and finally fell to the ground in the beautiful sunset, lying there like a lifeless thing, and he seemed to gradually wake up from a dream.I remember feeling sorry for him when I saw him pick up the kite and look around so lostly, as if he had fallen with the kite.

On the one hand, my friendship with Mr. Dick grew stronger, and on the other hand, my love for me, his faithful friend and my aunt, grew day by day.In a few short weeks, she liked me so much that she shortened the Trowood name I had inherited to Trot; Her sister, Bessie Trowood, was evenly divided. "Tro," said my aunt one evening, after the usual backgammon had been played for her and Mr. Dick, "we must not forget your education." It made me happy to hear her mention it, because it was the only thing that bothered me. "Would you like to go to the school at Canterbury?" said my aunt.

I replied that I would very much like to be so close to her. "Yes," said my aunt, "Jenny, hire the little gray horse-drawn cart at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, and pack Master Trotwood's clothes to-night." I was glad to hear these orders, but I reproached myself when I saw what effect they had on Mr. Dick.Mr. Dick was so dismayed at our parting that he couldn't even play backgammon well.After warning him a few times with the dice cylinder, my aunt put away the chessboard and stopped playing with him.But my aunt said that I could come back on some Saturdays, and Mr. Dick could visit me on some Wednesdays, and Mr. Dick became more interested when he heard this, and promised to make another kite for those times, which would be better than now. This one is much bigger.In the morning he was depressed again, and to cheer himself up he would give me all his money, gold and silver; but his aunt stopped him, and limited the gift to five shillings, and could not help him. Pleading, and increased to ten shillings.We could not have been more cordial when we parted at the garden gate, and Mr. Dick did not enter until my aunt drove me out of his sight.

The aunt, who never cared about public opinion, skillfully drove the little gray horse through Dover, where she sat upright like a decent coachman.No matter where the horse is going, her eyes are always fixed on the horse, and she will never allow it to move at will.She let it loosen a little when we were on the country road; she looked down at me sitting beside her on the soft cushions, and asked if I was happy. "It's such a joy, thank you, auntie," I said. She was very happy, and since both hands were empty, she tapped my head lightly with the whip. "Is that a big school, Auntie?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said my aunt. "We'll go first to Mr. Wickfield's." "Does he run a school?" I asked. "No, Troy," said my aunt, "he has an office." I stopped asking about Mr. Wickfield, as she would not say anything, and we talked about other things before we got to Canterbury.It was market day in Canterbury, and my aunt was able to drive the little gray horse back and forth among the carts and baskets and vegetables and peddler's stalls there.The various thrilling turns we made caused various comments from the people standing aside. Not all of those words were very pleasant, but my aunt and grandma drove the car forward very calmly.I believe that even if she had to go through an enemy country at her own will, she would be so calm.

Finally, we stopped in front of a very old house jutting out from the road.This house had more prominent long and low pane windows, and beams with human heads protruding from both ends, so that I fancied that the whole house was leaning forward to see the sky below it. Who is walking on the narrow sidewalk.The house was so clean that the old-fashioned brass ring-carpeted knocker shone like a star on the low arched door; white as linen; and all protrusions or sunken parts, and carvings and reliefs, and fine little panes and still finer windows, were as clean as mountain snow, though they were all like mountains. ancient.

The horse stopped in front of the door, and as I stared at the room, I saw a small round pavilion on the first floor forming one side of the room. Behind the small window in the pavilion appeared a dead gray face, but wrote: disappeared again.Then the low arch opened and the face came out.The face was still as dead gray as it had been behind the window, but it had the redness that is so common in redhead complexions on the surface.The face belonged to a man with red hair--a youth of fifteen, as I now think, but much larger-looking--his hair was cut short, like stubble; and he had hardly any eyebrows , no eyelashes, brown eyes; I remember wondering how he could sleep at night with eyes that were uncovered like that?His shoulders were hunched, his bones were bony, and he wore a passable black suit with a white scarf buttoned up to cover his neck.When he was standing by the horse's head, looking up at us in the car, and rubbing his hand under his chin, his hands caught my attention--so slender, so thin.

"Is Mr. Wilfield in, Uriah Heep?" said my aunt. "Mr. Wickfield is at home, ma'am," said Uriah Heep. "Come in." With his long hand he pointed to the room he spoke of. We got out of the car and let him watch the horses.We entered a living room facing the street, which was low and long.On entering the drawing-room, I caught a glimpse from the drawing-room window of Uriah Heep blowing into the horse's nostrils, and immediately putting his hands over the horse's nostrils, as if he were doing some enchantment to the horse.Opposite the tall old mantelpiece are two pictures, one of a man with white hair and black brows (but not an old man anyway) reading some papers bound together with red ribbons; It was a woman, with a peaceful and sweet expression, looking at me.

I now believe that when I was looking around for the portrait of Uriah, a door at the other end of the room opened and a man walked in.As soon as I saw him, I turned to look at the first painting to make sure the portrait hadn't come down from the frame, but the painting didn't move.The man came into the light, and I saw that he was older than when he was painted. "Miss Bessie Trotwood," said the man, "come in. I was busy just now, but please forgive me. You know my motives. I have had only one motive in my life." Miss Bessie thanked him, and we went into his room.There were books, papers, tin boxes, etc., in that room.The room looked out onto a garden, and contained an iron safe built into the wall, under which was the mantelpiece.As I sat down, I couldn't help but wonder how they could turn the broom in the chimney when they were sweeping it.

"Hey, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield--for I soon discovered that he was Mr. Wickfield, a lawyer, and estate manager of a wealthy local man-- "What brought you here? Not some bad wind, I hope?" "No," replied my aunt, "I'm not here on any legal matter." "Yes, ma'am," said Mr. Wickfield, "you had better come for something else." At that time, his hair was completely white, but his eyebrows were still black.He had a lovely face, and I thought it was pretty.There was a tinge in his complexion which, under Peggotty's tutelage, I had long been accustomed to associate with claret; Because of this color.He was very neatly dressed, in a blue coat, a striped vest, and cotton trousers; his fine ruffled shirt and white muslin cravat looked so soft and white, I remember making my floating fantasies think of a swan-breast. feather. "This is my nephew," said my aunt. "I didn't know you had a nephew, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield. "In other words, my grandnephew." My aunt explained. "To tell you the truth, I didn't know you had a grandnephew," said Mr. Wickfield. "I took him in," said my aunt, waving her hand, meaning that it didn't matter whether he knew it or not, and said, "I'm taking him here, and I'm going to send him to a place where he can get a very good education and a very good treatment." school. Tell me now: where is this school, what is it, and everything about it." "Before I can give you correct advice," said Mr. Wickfield, "the old question must be cleared up, as you know it. What is your motive?" "Stop joking!" cried my aunt. "Always dig deep for the motivation, but the motivation is actually on the surface! Hey, let this child be happy and successful." "It's a mixed motive, I suppose," said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his head and smiling distrustfully. "It's mixed nonsense!" replied my aunt. "You profess to have but one honest motive in what you do. I hope you don't think you're the only honest businessman in the world?" "Well, I've only had one motive in my life, Miss Trotwood," he replied, laughing. "I've had thousands of others, and that's the difference. But that's beside the point. Best school?" ?Whatever the motive, you want the best, don't you?" My aunt nodded in agreement. "The best school we have," mused Mr. Wickfield, "and your grandnephew cannot board." "But he could board elsewhere, I suppose?" suggested the aunt. Mr. Wickfield thought it would work.After some discussion, he suggested that his aunt go to the school with him, so that he might examine and judge it for herself;My aunt strongly agreed with these suggestions.When the three of us were about to start together, he stopped again and said: "Our little friend here may have some motive for objecting to these practices. I think we'd better keep him here." My aunt seemed to want to argue with him; but I, in order to get things done, said I'd rather stay if they liked it.I therefore turned back to Mr. Wickfield's office, and took my chair again, till they returned. This chair happened to face a narrow passage which ended in a circular room from the window of which I had seen the pale face of Uriah Heep.After leading the horse to a nearby stable, Uriah began to work at the desk in this room.There is a copper shelf for hanging documents on the desk, and the documents he is copying are hanging on it.I thought at the time that although his face was toward me, he couldn't see me through the brass shelf between us.But when I looked there carefully, I felt very uncomfortable, because I found that his sleepless eyes were like two red suns glancing over from under the document from time to time, and every time he glanced over, he almost stared at me. One minute.While he was looking at me, he was still writing nimbly with the pen in his hand, or pretending to be writing.Several times, I tried to avoid these two red suns-such as standing on a chair to look at the map on the opposite wall, or carefully reading an article in a Kent newspaper-but I was always attracted by them In the past; whenever I looked at those two red suns, I was sure to find them either rising or setting. The return of my aunt and Mr. Wickfield, after a long absence, reassured me.They were not as successful as I had hoped, for although the school was indeed very good, the lodgings suggested to me were disapproved by my aunt. "Unfortunately," said my aunt, "I don't know what to do, Trol." "Unfortunately, of course," said Mr. Wickfield, "but I can tell you what can be done, Miss Trotwood." "What should I do?" asked my aunt. "Keep your grandnephew here for now. He's a quiet fellow. He'll never bother me. It's the best place to study. Quiet as a monastery, and almost as spacious as a monastery. Leave him here." .” My aunt obviously liked the idea, but she felt too bad about it, and I felt the same way. "That's the way, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield. "It's the solution to the difficulty. It's just an expedient, you know. In case things don't go well, or cause us mutual inconvenience." , he can easily turn backwards. At the same time, it will allow time to find a more suitable place for him. You should decide to leave him here for the time being." "I am very grateful to you," said my aunt, "as is he, I know; but--" "Come! I see what you mean," cried Mr. Wickfield. "You needn't be troubled by acceptance, Miss Trotwood. You can pay for his board and lodging if you like. We shall Don't bother to negotiate the price, you can just give it whatever you want." "Although this will not reduce the sincere favor by half," said my aunt, "based on this tacit understanding, I am very happy to keep him." "Meet my little butler, then," said Mr. Wickfield. So we went up a wonderful old staircase, with such a wide balustrade that we could walk up it with almost as much ease.We came to a dark and ancient sitting-room, with three or four antique windows, such as I had seen in the street.There were also very old oak chairs, which seemed to be made of the same tree as the shiny oak floor and ceiling beams.The room was beautifully furnished, with a piano, some bright red and green decorations, and some flowers.That room seemed to be full of ancient corners, and in every corner there was always a special small table or cabinet, or bookshelf, or seat, or this, or that, which always made me think it was this room. one of the best corners of the town, but when I saw the next one, it was just as good, if not better.Everything exuded the same ease and cleanliness that the house had on the outside. Mr. Wickfield knocked at a door in a corner of the paneled wall, and soon a girl about my own age came out, who kissed him.From the girl's face, I immediately saw the calm and sweet expression of the woman in the painting looking at me downstairs.As I think of it, it is as if the portrait had grown up and she herself was a child, her face bright and happy, but with a stillness that I never forgot and never will, that hung over her, It was a stable, kind, and peaceful demeanor. This, Mr. Wickfield said, was his little housekeeper, and his daughter Agnes.Listening to his voice and the way he held her hand, I could guess what was the motive of his life. She carried a little odds-and-basket with the keys in it; she looked just the dignified and careful steward that such an old house should have.She looked pleased when her father spoke of me.When Mr. Wickfield had finished, he suggested to my aunt that we should go upstairs together and see my room.We walk together, and she walks ahead of us.It was a splendid old room, with more oak floors and diamond panelling; also reached by a broad staircase with balustrades. I don't remember when or where, but I saw a church stained glass window when I was very young.I don't even remember what was painted on that painting.But I know that when I see her turn in the dim light on the old staircase and wait for us to go upstairs, I think of that window.I have henceforth associated the quiet, bright hues of that window with Agnes Wickfield. My aunt was as happy in what had been arranged for me as I was.We returned to the living room happily and satisfied.She refused to stay and dine, for fear that the little gray colt would not be home before dark; and Mr. Wickfield, who knew her well enough to argue with her, could get nowhere, was there for her. Serve some dim sum.Agnes then returned to her governess, and Wickfield to his office.This way, we can say goodbye freely. She told me that everything could be arranged for me by Mr. Wickfield, and that I should be without any inconvenience; "Trow," concluded my aunt, "be worthy of yourself, and me, and Mr. Dick, and God bless you!" I was so moved that I could only thank her again and again and ask her to convey my respect and love to Mr. Dick. "Never be mean in any way," said my aunt, "never be false, never be cruel. Stay away from these three vices, Trol, and I will always have hope in you." I assented as best I could, saying that I would never fail her kindness, nor forget her advice. "It's the door," said my aunt. "I'm going! Stay here." As she said that, she hurriedly hugged me, walked out of the room, and closed the door behind her. At first, I was surprised by such a sudden breakup, and I was afraid that I might offend her in some way.But when I looked into the street and saw her getting into the carriage listlessly, driving away without looking up or looking, I understood her better and didn't misunderstand her so much. At five o'clock--it was Mr. Wickfield's supper-time--I was in good spirits again, and ready to eat.There was only a table for the two of us, but before dinner was served Agnes waited for her father in the living room, accompanied him downstairs and sat at the table opposite him.I wonder if he can eat without her. After dinner, instead of sitting in the dining room, we went back to the living room.In a cozy corner, Agnes served her father a glass and a bottle of claret.I think, if the wine was served by someone else, he would definitely not be able to drink that taste. He sat there for two hours, drinking (a lot), and Agnes played the piano, sewed, and talked to him and me.Most of the time with us he was happy and in high spirits; but sometimes, when his eyes fell on her, he fell into thought and fell silent.I guess she figured this out pretty quickly, and was always trying to raise his spirits with questions or pets.So, he stopped thinking and drank more wine. Agnes prepared tea and poured it out for everyone.After tea, she passed the time as after dinner, until she went to bed.Then her father hugged her and kissed her, and after she left he ordered candles to be lit in his office. I went to bed too. But at night, I wandered downstairs and took a small walk along the street, wanting to see those old houses and gray churches by the way, and remember how I passed through this old town in those days, and how I passed the house where I lived .When I came back, I saw Uriah Heep closing the door of his office.Being always friendly to people, I went in and talked to him, and shook his hand at parting.Oh, how sticky and damp his hands were!It's as scary to touch as it is to see!Afterwards, I wiped my hands, trying to warm them up, and trying to wipe his hands off too! -------- ① This refers to the famous cathedral in Canterbury. It was such an uncomfortable hand, and I still remember it cold and damp as I walked into my room.I leaned out of the window and saw one of those carved wooden faces at the end of the beam looking sideways at me, and I fancied it was Uriah Heep who somehow got up there, and shut him hastily .