“I do hope he will give you away,” said Martha.
“He will never give me away,” I returned; “but he will give me to John. And I will not have the wedding until he is able to do that.”
“You are right,” said John. “And we mustn't ask him anything, or even refer to anything, till he wants to hear.”
Days went and came, and still he did not seem to know quite where he was; if he did know, he seemed so content with knowing it, that he did not want to know anything more in heaven or earth. We grew very anxious about him. He did not heed a word that Dr. Southwell said. His mind seemed as exhausted as his body. The doctor justified John's resolve, saying he must not be troubled with questions, or the least attempt to rouse his memory.
John was now almost constantly with us. One day I asked him whether his mother took any notice of his being now so seldom home at night. He answered she did not; and, but for being up to her ways, he would imagine she knew nothing at all about his doings.
“What does she do herself all day long?” I asked.
“Goes over her books, I imagine,” he answered. “She knows the hour is at hand when she must render account of her stewardship, and I suppose she is getting ready to meet it;—how, I would rather not conjecture. She gives me no trouble now, and I have no wish to trouble her.”
“Have you no hope of ever being on filial terms with her again?” I said.
“There can be few things more unlikely,” he replied.
I was a little troubled, notwithstanding my knowledge of her and my feeling toward her, that he should regard a complete alienation from his mother with such indifference. I could not, however, balance the account between them! If she had a strong claim in the sole fact that she was his mother, how much had she not injured him simply by not being lovable! Love unpaid is the worst possible debt; and to make it impossible to pay it, is the worst of wrongs.