“Naw, suh,” said Billy, coolly. “An’ I ain’ gwi’ eat twell you say I kin go wid you. I done th’ow my vittles to de horgs ev’ry day sence den—an’ I gwi’ keep it up, ef you doan’ lem me go.”
George was thunderstruck. Here was a case for discipline, and he was a natural disciplinarian. But where Billy was concerned George had a very weak spot, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that the simple, ignorant, devoted fellow might actually do as he threatened. Therefore he promised, in a very little while, that Billy should not be separated from him—at which Billy got up strength enough to cut the pigeon-wing, and then made a bee-line for the kitchen. George followed him, and nearly had to knock him down to keep him from eating himself ill. Lord Fairfax could not refrain from laughing when George, gravely and with much ingenuity in putting the best face on Billy’s conduct, told of it, and George felt rather hurt at the earl’s laughing; he did not like to be laughed at, and people always laughed at him about Billy, which vexed him exceedingly.
On this summer’s journey he first became really familiar with the Indians over the mountains. He came across his old acquaintance Black Bear, who showed a most un-Indianlike gratitude. He joined the camp, rather to the alarm of Gist and Davidson, who, as Davidson said, might wake up any morning and find themselves scalped. George, however, permitted Black Bear to remain, and the Indian’s subsequent conduct showed the wisdom of this. He told that his father, Tanacharison, the powerful chief, was now inclined to the English, and claimed the credit of converting him. He promised George he would be safe whenever he was anywhere within the influence of Tanacharison.
George devoted his leisure to the study of the Indian dialects, and from Black Bear himself he learned much of the ways and manners and prejudices of the Indians. He spent months in arduous work, and when, on the first of October, he returned to Greenway he had proved himself to be the most capable surveyor Lord Fairfax had ever had.
The earl, in planning for the next year’s work, asked George, one day, “But why, my dear George, do you lead this laborious life, when you are the heir of a magnificent property?”
George’s face flushed a little.
“One does not relish very much, sir, the idea of coming into property by the death of a person one loves very much, as I love my brother Laurence. And I would rather order my life as if there were no such thing in the world as inheriting Mount Vernon. As it is, I have every privilege there that any one could possibly have, and I hope my brother will live as long as I do to enjoy it.”
“That is the natural way that a high-minded young man would regard it; and if your brother had not been sure of your disinterestedness you may be sure he would never have made you his heir. Grasping people seldom, with all their efforts, secure anything from others.”
These two yearly visits of George’s to Greenway Court—one on his way to the mountains, and the other and longer one when he returned—were the bright times of the year to the earl. This autumn he determined to accompany George back to Mount Vernon, and also to visit the Fairfaxes at Belvoir. The great coach was furbished up for the journey, the outriders’ liveries were brought forth from camphor-chests, and the four roans were harnessed up. George followed the same plan as on his first journey with Lord Fairfax two years before—driving with him in the coach the first stage of the day, and riding the last stage.
On reaching Mount Vernon, George was distressed to see his brother looking thinner and feebler than ever, and Mrs. Washington was plainly anxious about him. Both were delighted to have him back, as Laurence was quite unable to attend to the vast duties of such a place, and Mrs. Washington had no one but an overseer to rely on. The society of Lord Fairfax, who was peculiarly charming and comforting to persons of a grave temperament, did much for Laurence Washington’s spirits. Lord Fairfax had himself suffered, and he realized the futility of wealth and position to console the great sorrows of life.