Девід Копперфільд

A Light Shines on My Way

           Longmilesofroadthenopenedoutbeforemymind;and,toilingon,Isawaraggedway-wornboy,forsakenandneglected,whoshouldcometocalleventheheartnowbeatingagainstmine,hisown.

           Itwasnearlydinner-timenextdaywhenweappearedbeforemyaunt.Shewasupinmystudy,Peggottysaid:whichitwasherpridetokeepinreadinessandorderforme.Wefoundher,inherspectacles,sittingbythefire.

           ‘Goodnessme!’saidmyaunt,peeringthroughthedusk,‘who’sthisyou’rebringinghome?’

           ‘Agnes,’saidI.

           Aswehadarrangedtosaynothingatfirst,myauntwasnotalittlediscomfited.Shedartedahopefulglanceatme,whenIsaid‘Agnes’;butseeingthatIlookedasusual,shetookoffherspectaclesindespair,andrubbedhernosewiththem.

           ShegreetedAgnesheartily,nevertheless;andweweresooninthelightedparlourdownstairs,atdinner.Myauntputonherspectaclestwiceorthrice,totakeanotherlookatme,butasoftentookthemoffagain,disappointed,andrubbedhernosewiththem.MuchtothediscomfitureofMr.Dick,whoknewthistobeabadsymptom.

           ‘Bytheby,aunt,’saidI,afterdinner;‘IhavebeenspeakingtoAgnesaboutwhatyoutoldme.’

           ‘Then,Trot,’saidmyaunt,turningscarlet,‘youdidwrong,andbrokeyourpromise.’

           ‘Youarenotangry,aunt,Itrust?Iamsureyouwon’tbe,whenyoulearnthatAgnesisnotunhappyinanyattachment.

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