As soon as George had spoken he disengaged himself gently from his
mother’s arms. She was still weeping, but blessing him.
“God will reward you, my son, for this yielding to your mother!” she
cried.
“I don’t know, mother, whether I deserve a reward or not,” he answered,
in the same strange voice in which he had first spoken. “I am not sure
whether I am doing right or not, but I know I could not do otherwise.
I did not yield to your command, but to your entreaty. But let me go,
mother.” And before she could stop him he was out of the room, and she
heard his quick step up the stairs and his door locked after him.
He tore off his uniform as if every shred of it burned him, put on his
ordinary clothes, and then, sitting down on the bed, gazed blankly
before him.
And blank looked the life before him. He had suffered himself to dwell
upon the thought of a naval or military career until it had become
a part of his life. He foresaw that the same strange weakness on
his mother’s part which kept him from joining the navy might keep
him out of the army. True, if there should be war between the French
and English in the Northwest it would be his duty to defend his
country, and no pleadings could keep him back then; but that was only
a contingency. And, in any event, he could not again ask the help, in
getting a commission, of the only persons who could serve him--his
brother Laurence and Lord Fairfax--after this unfortunate ending of
his first attempt. And, worst of all, he was not sure that he was
right, and he was very sure his mother was wrong. That of itself was
a staggering blow. He had always fancied his mother perfect, and her
weakness, her blind partiality for him over the rest of her children,
at once shattered his ideal. She was a true and devoted mother, but in
a great emergency she showed a tender unwisdom that seemed foreign to
her character. George did not love her any the less for this, but he
realized that after this he must think and act for himself. She had not
thought of how far he was committed in the matter, or that his brother
Laurence might be justly offended at his course--she only thought of
the anguish of giving him up. It was all hard and inscrutable to the
boy, sitting with rigid face and dry eyes, gazing before him and
seeing nothing. He did not know how long he sat there. He heard Betty’s
light step and lighter tap upon the door, and she called him, softly,
through the keyhole.
“Go away, dear Betty,” answered George; “I can’t see anybody just now.”
It seemed to him days, not hours, before he heard the bell for dinner.
He gathered himself together and went down-stairs. Betty almost cried
out when she saw him, he was so haggard. His mother saw it too, and
it made her heart ache; but in her heart she felt that it was better
to have him as he was than to say good-bye to him forever, which she
was firmly persuaded would be the case had he gone in the navy. Madam
Washington, being naturally a woman of great integrity, was not at ease
in her mind. She had not forgotten the light in which she would appear
before Laurence Washington and Lord Fairfax. She read again and again
that letter from Joseph Ball, which George had appalled her by calling
both ignorant and foolish. She had been taught to think brother Joseph
a monument of wisdom; but she was not so sure of it after having acted
on his advice in this great event.
At dinner both George and his mother were perfectly composed and
polite. Neither the children nor the servants knew that anything was
the matter until Betty betrayed it. But little Betty’s heart was so
full for George’s disappointment that she could not eat her dinner, and
tears dropped upon her plate. Towards the last of the dinner one of the
little boys suddenly exclaimed:
“Brother, I saw you in your uniform this morning; are you going to wear
it every day?”
At this Betty burst into a loud sob, and, getting up from the table,
rushed to George and threw her arms about him. George rose and led the
weeping girl out of the room. Usually such an infraction of discipline
and table manners as George and Betty leaving the table without
permission would have been strictly prohibited. But their mother saw
that these two young souls were wrought up to the keenest distress, and
as she had gained her victory she could afford to be magnanimous.
“Betty,” said George, hurriedly, when they got out of the room, “put on
your hood, and let us go into the woods. It makes one feel better, when
one is sad, to go into the woods.”
The day was dull and overcast as the boy and girl, hand in hand,
tramped across the fields to where the fringe of cedars formed the
advance guard of the woodlands. George held Betty’s hand very tightly
in his. _She_ understood him, at least.
They said but little until they were well in the heart of the woods,
and had sat down upon a fallen tree. Then George, laying his head on
Betty’s shoulder, burst into tears, and cried as if his heart would
break.
No creature was ever better formed to feel for others than sweet
little Betty. She had never seen George weep like that; but she was
not frightened or disconcerted. She only laid her wet cheek against
George’s, and sighed so deeply that he knew that his burden lay as
heavy on her heart as on his. Presently, when he had become more
composed, Betty spoke:
“Brother, hard as it is, I am glad of one thing--nobody can say
anything to you about it, after you have said that you gave way to our
mother, for no boy, or man either, can let anybody in the world find
fault with his mother.”
“Yes, Betty,” answered George, sadly. “I will not be such a poltroon as
to let any one say my mother has not acted right.”
“She meant to act right,” said Betty; “but--” Betty paused, and the
brother and sister looked into each other’s eyes and said no more, but
each understood the other.
“Of course,” sighed Betty, “it would have been the hardest thing in
the world to have you go away; but if you wanted to go, dear George,
and it was best for you, _I_ would have given you up, and I would have
tried not to cry when you went away, and I would have thought of you
every single day while you were away, and if you had not come home for
ten years, or twenty years, I would have loved you just as much as
ever.”
George had always loved Betty dearly, but he felt now, at the hour of
his cruelest disappointment, what it was to have that tender sister,
to whom he could reveal his whole heart. Much as he loved his brother
Laurence, deeply as he revered Lord Fairfax, and with all his love and
reverence for his mother, he felt obliged to keep up before them a
manly fortitude; but Betty was young and inexperienced like himself,
and, because of that, in some ways she was nearer to him than anybody
else.
The two sat there until late in the afternoon, and so quiet were they
that a squirrel came boldly out of his hole and hopped past them, and
a robin, with a weak little pretence of a song, in spite of the wintry
weather, swung within reach of them. It was nearly sunset before they
took their way homeward. George, like all boys, was not glib of tongue
in expressing his emotions; but when they got to the edge of the woods
he kissed her, and said:
“Betty, I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t been for you
this miserable day.”
The little sister’s loyal heart grew almost happy at this.
A hard task remained for George. He had to write to his brother
Laurence and to Lord Fairfax, announcing what he had done. They were
not easy letters to write, but he carefully refrained from any hint of
blame upon his mother.
Madam Washington, having gained her heart’s desire, could not now do
too much for George. He was already far advanced beyond Mr. Hobby’s
school, and his mother determined to have a tutor for him. Nothing was
too good for him now; his tutor must be a university man, with every
qualification in family and manners, as well as learning. But there was
no such person within reach, and communication in those days being slow
and uncertain, there seemed no immediate chance of finding one. George
went his way calmly, but with his disappointment eating into his heart.
He studied surveying, in which he was already proficient, with Mr.
Hobby; but he did nothing else. Even his beloved hunting and shooting
palled upon him. He would spend the day at work, having Mr. Hobby’s
help in the afternoon, and at night he would work out at home what
he had done during the day. Mother and son never failed in courtesy
and even affection for each other--indeed, Madam Washington lavished
affection upon him in a manner hitherto unknown to him, but there was a
little shadow between them.
Heretofore George had not escaped being lectured for his youthful
shortcomings, but no fault was ever found with him now. Even Billy’s
laziness was excused, and he might be as idle as he pleased; like his
young master, he enjoyed a complete immunity from fault-finding. This
was not a natural or a healthy way for the mother and son to live; and
one day, when George walked in and laid a letter from Lord Fairfax
in his mother’s hand, saying, simply, “I think I should like that,
mother,” Madam Washington, with one sharp pang, felt that they must
part--at least, for a while.
The letter was brief, and had no mention of the warrant in the navy, by
which George subtly understood that Lord Fairfax knew it was a delicate
subject, and would say nothing about it. The earl wrote, however, that
he had determined to have his lands across the mountains surveyed
during the coming summer, and offered George for it a sum of money so
large that to the boy’s unsophisticated mind it seemed a fortune. But
Lord Fairfax stipulated that George should have a license from the
State of Virginia, as his surveys would no doubt often be called in
question, and there must be a recorded proof of his efficiency.
Madam Washington sighed deeply, yet there was no doubt that he must go.
He would be sixteen within a few days, and he was already as developed
in mind and body as a young man of nineteen. Her plans for his further
education seemed impossible to realize, and it was plain there was but
one thing to do--to let him go. She told him so that night, and the
first gleam of sunshine came into his face that she had seen since the
day after his return home. Betty’s comment was like her.
“If you want to go, George, I want you to go; but it will be doleful at
Ferry Farm without you.”
George immediately made preparations for his examination in surveying,
and, having passed it successfully, and got his certificate, he was
ready to start on his journey as soon as the spring should open. He
wrote to his brother Laurence stating his plan, and saying he would
spend a night at Mount Vernon on his way. Laurence had shown the same
consideration for George’s feelings that Lord Fairfax had, and, in
reply to the letter returning the midshipman’s warrant, had merely said
that he regretted he had not known of Madam Washington’s determination
sooner. One sentence at the end touched George: “Your little niece is
well, but she is but a frail child, and I have a presentiment that
Mount Vernon will never come to any child of mine. For that reason,
as you will some day be master of this place, I would like to have
you here as often and as long as your mother can spare you. My own
constitution is delicate, and nothing is more probable than that you
will have Mount Vernon for your own before you are of age.”
Madam Washington made the preparations for George’s departure with a
steady cheerfulness that belied her sad heart. She herself proposed
that he should take Billy along. She offered him such a considerable
sum of money that George knew she must be depriving herself of many
things, and refused to take it all. In every way there was a strong
though silent purpose to make up to him for her one moment of weakness.
George felt this, and when, on the morning of his departure, his mother
bade him good-bye with a smile on her pale lips, he felt a softening of
the heart towards her that lasted not only during this separation but
through all the coming years with their tremendous events.
Little Betty wept torrents of tears, protesting all the time--“Dear
George, I am glad for you to go--I don’t want you to stay--I can’t help
crying a little, though.”
George held her in his arms with a full heart, and wished that he had
words to tell her how much she was to him; but Betty understood well
enough. When the last farewells were said, and George was out of sight
of his mother’s brave smile and Betty’s tears, a sudden revulsion
of feeling came to him, as it does to all healthy young natures. He
had got to the very extremity of his despair, and there was a strong
reaction. He was essentially a boy of action, and action was now before
him. Indeed, he was no longer a boy, but a man, with responsibilities
upon him that seldom fall to young people of his years. He had his
surveyor’s license in his pocket, and upon the use he made of it might
depend not only issues of property, but of peace and war; because he
knew that the unsettled state of the frontier was the real reason why
Lord Fairfax meant to have the wild lands in his grant surveyed. The
day was bright, it was in the spring-time, and he was well mounted
on a good horse. Billy, riding a stout cart-horse and carrying the
saddle-bags, was behind him, and Rattler was trotting by his side.
Things might be worse, thought George, as he struck into a canter and
wondered that his heart was so blithe. He would see his brother and
sister that night, and little Mildred, and in a few days more he would
be again at Greenway with the earl and old Lance; and he would have all
the books he wanted to read, and fencing whenever he liked. He wondered
how much he had forgotten of it; he had not fenced since leaving Mount
Vernon at Christmas. But neither had he read or done anything else, it
seemed to George, so blank was the time from the day he came home until
then. Billy hankered after the flesh-pots of Mount Vernon, where things
were conducted on a much grander scale than at the simple Ferry Farm
homestead. George heard him chuckling to himself, and, turning in the
saddle, asked:
“What pleases you so, Billy?”
“Tuckey, suh,” answered Billy, promptly, “wid sassages roun’ dee
necks--an’ oshters an’ sp’yar-ribs an’ chines an’ goose, an’ all dem
things dee black folks gits in de kitchen at Mount Vernon.”
It was a good forty-five miles to Mount Vernon, but George made it by
eight o’clock that night.
His brother and sister were delighted to see him, and little Mildred
had not forgotten him. After a traveller’s supper George told them all
his plans. He passed quickly over the giving up of his midshipman’s
warrant, merely saying, “My mother begged me not to leave her for the
sea, and I consented. But,” he added, after a pause, “it nearly broke
my heart.”
He was distressed to see his brother looking pale and thin, and still
more so at the despondent tone Laurence took about himself. He would
have had George go into the study, and there with him discuss the
present state of the place and its future management, as if he were
certain that one day it would be George’s; but this the boy flatly
refused.
“No, brother,” he said, “I can only inherit Mount Vernon through
misfortune to you and yours; and do you suppose I like to think about
that? Indeed I do not; and I neither think nor care about what you do
on the place, except that it shall be for your own satisfaction.”
The next morning George was off, much to the regret of his brother and
sister, and also to Billy, who had promised himself a regular carnival
in the Mount Vernon kitchen.
The road was the same that George had taken nearly five months before,
on his first expedition to Greenway Court. Then it had been at the
fall of the leaf, and now it was at the bursting of the spring. Already
the live-oaks and poplars were showing a faint and silvery green, and
in sheltered, sunny spots grass was sprouting. The watercourses were
high from the melting of the snow, and fording them was not always
without difficulty and even danger. At every mile that George travelled
his mind and heart gained a better balance by quick degrees. He was
sorry to be parted from his mother and Betty, but he was at a time of
life when he must try his own strength, and he was the better for it.
He stopped at the same taverns that he had halted at when with Lord
Fairfax. Billy proved himself to be an excellent hostler as well as
valet, and George did not mean to forget mentioning to his mother, when
he should have an opportunity of sending a letter, how extremely useful
Billy was. On the fourth day, being well up in the mountains, they
came to Lord Fairfax’s coach-house, as it was called, but instead of
stopping George pushed on to Greenway Court, much to Billy’s disgust,
who had no taste for long journeys on traveller’s fare. On a March
night, that, although cool, had a touch of spring in the air, and under
a glorious moon George rode up to the door at Greenway Court, and
joyfully dismounted. Lord Fairfax did not know the exact day to expect
him, but knew he would arrive about that time. When George’s loud
rat-tat resounded upon the great oak doors, it seemed the most natural
thing in the world to have them opened by old Lance, who said, as if he
had seen George half an hour before:
“Good-evening, Mr. Washington; my lord is expecting you. Billy, take
the horses around to the stable.”
George walked in, and almost ran into the earl’s arms. Lord Fairfax was
overjoyed to see him, and, although he did not say much, his pleasure
shone in his eyes. George’s room was ready for him; there was a fine
young half-thoroughbred in the stables that was waiting for George’s
saddle and bridle to be put on him; Lance had some bears’ paws for his
supper whenever he should arrive; there were some books on surveying
imported from England for him. Had he been Lord Fairfax’s son and heir
he could not have been received with greater consideration. The earl
could not do enough for him. It was:
“Lance, is Mr. Washington’s room prepared for him?”
“Yes, sir. It has been ready for a week.”
“And, Lance, Mr. Washington will probably want you in the morning in
the armory.”
“Yes, sir; I shall be at Mr. Washington’s orders,” and a dozen other
similar marks of tender forethought, more like a woman than a man.
George could not but think how easy it was to be amiable and high-toned
amid such surroundings.
As soon as supper was over George displayed proudly his license as
surveyor, and would have plunged into the affair of the surveys at
once, but Lord Fairfax gave the first intimation then that he did not
consider George a full-fledged man.
“Never mind for to-night, George. Very young gentlemen like you are apt
to go at things like a hunter at a five-barred gate, but you can wait
awhile. Besides, you must go to bed early after your journey, so as to
get sleep--a thing that growing boys cannot do without.”
George felt several years younger at this speech, and blushed a little
for his mannish airs, but the earl’s advice about going to bed was
sound, and in five minutes after finding himself in the great high-post
bed he was sleeping the sleep of healthy and active boyhood.