"
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.
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