It seemed as if his rival drew Meadows after him wherever he went, so
fascinated was he with this subject. And now all the evening he sucked
the books like a leech.

Men observed, about this time, an irritable manner in Mr. Meadows
which he had never shown before, and an eternal restlessness; they
little divined the cause, or dreamed what a vow he had made, and what
it cost him every day to keep it. So strong was the struggle within
him, that there were moments when he feared he should go mad; and then
it was that he learned the value of his mother's presence in the
house.

There was no explanation between them, there could be no sympathy; had
he opened his heart to her he knew she would have denounced his love
for Susan Merton as a damnable crime. Once she invited his confidence.
"What ails you, John?" said the old woman. "You had better tell me;
you would feel easier, I'm thinking."

But he turned it off a little fretfully, and she never returned to the
charge. But though there could be no direct sympathy, yet there was a
soothing influence in this quaint old woman's presence. She moved
quietly about, protecting his habits, not disturbing them; she seemed
very thoughtful, too, and cast many a secret glance of inquiry and
interest at him when he was not looking at her.

This had gone on some weeks when, one afternoon, Meadows, who had been
silent as death for a full half hour, started from his chair and said
with sudden resolution: