A Virginia cavalier

by Molly Elliot Seawell

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.”