“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.