"You are both young, Barton, and you have all the world in which to overcome your faults and repair your mistakes, and Julia—"
"Not another word of her, mother dear! She has gone more utterly out of my life than as if she were buried. Then I might think of her; now I will not," firmly.
"Oh, that this should come to you now, my poor, poor boy!"
"Don't pity me, mother! I am soft enough now, and don't you for a moment think that I have nothing else to do in this world but to be killed out of it by the scorn of a girl. Let us not think of these Markhams. The Judge is ambitious, and proud of his wealth and self, and his daughter is ambitious too. The world wants me; it has work for me. I can hear its voices calling me now, and I am not ready. Don't think I am to sit and languish and pine for any girl;" and his mouth was firm with will and purpose, and a great swell of pride and pain agitated the bosom of his mother, who recognized the high elements of a nature drawn from her own.
"You know, mother," he continued, thoughtfully, "that I am not one to be loved. I am not handsome and popular, like Morris, whom all men like and many women love; nor thoughtful and accomplished and considerate, like Henry, whom everybody esteems and respects, and of whom so much is expected."
"Do you envy them, Barton?"
"Envy them, mother? Don't I love the world for loving Morris? Don't I follow him about to feel the gladness that he brings? Don't I live on the praises of Henry? and don't I tear every man that utters a doubt of his infallibility? Poor old Dominie Young! I was savage on him last night, for an unnecessary remark about Henry; and I'll go and hear him preach, to show my contrition; and penitence can't go further. Now, mother dear, I probably wanted this, and I am now down on the flat, hard foundation of things. Don't blame this Julia, and don't think of her in connection with me. No girl will ever scorn one of your boys but once."
She lingered, and would have said more; but he put her away with affected gayety, and said he was coming down immediately,—and he did. But the melancholy chords vibrated long.
There was another overhauling of the little desk, and innumerable sketches of various excellence, having a family resemblance, with faults in common, were sent to join the departed verses.
That night, in a letter to Henry, he said: "I've burned the last of my ships, not saving even a small boat."