Gravesend and Rochester. The same day, the stable-boy had met a woman running out of the yard, pursued by the dog. She was a stranger, and was not well-dressed. While the boy was protecting her by chaining the dog to his kennel, she was quick enough to place herself beyond the reach of pursuit.
The infant's clothing proved, on examination, to be of the finest linen. He was warmly wrapped in a beautiful shawl of some foreign manufacture, entirely unknown to all the persons present, including the master and mistress of the house. Among the folds of the shawl there was discovered an open letter, without date, signature, or address, which it was presumed the woman must have forgotten.
Like the shawl, the paper was of foreign manufacture. The handwriting presented a strongly marked character; and the composition plainly revealed the mistakes of a person imperfectly acquainted with the English language. The contents of the letter, after alluding to the means supplied for the support of the child, announced that the writer had committed the folly of inclosing a sum of a hundred pounds in a banknote, 'to pay expenses.' In a postscript, an appointment was made for a meeting in six months' time, on the eastward side of London Bridge. The stable-boy's description of the woman who had passed him showed that she belonged to the lower class. To such a person a hundred pounds would be a fortune. She had, no doubt, abandoned the child, and made off with the money.
No trace of her was ever discovered. On the day of the appointment the police watched the eastward side of London Bridge without obtaining any result. Through the kindness of the gentleman in whose stable he had been found, the first ten years of the boy's life were passed under the protection of a charitable asylum. They gave him the name of one of the little inmates who had died; and they sent him out to service before he was eleven years old. He was harshly treated and ran away; wandered to some training-stables near Newmarket; attracted the favorable notice of the head-groom, was employed among the other boys, and liked the occupation. Growing up to manhood, he had taken service in private families as a groom. This was the story of twenty-six years of Michael's life.
But there was something in the man himself which attracted attention, and made one think of him in his absence.
I mean by this, that there was a spirit of resistance to his destiny in him, which is very rarely found in serving-men of his order. I remember accompanying the General 'on one of his periodical visits of inspection to the stable.' He was so well satisfied that he proposed extending his investigations to the groom's own room.
'If you don object, Michael?' he added, with his customary consideration for the self-respect of all persons in his employment. Michael's color rose a little; he looked at me. 'I am afraid the young lady will not find my room quite so tidy as it ought to be,' he said as he opened the door for us.
The only disorder in the groom's room was produced, to our surprise, by the groom's books and papers.
Cheap editions of the English poets, translations of Latin and Greek classics, handbooks for teaching French and German 'without a master,' carefully written 'exercises' in both languages, manuals of shorthand, with more 'exercises' in that art, were scattered over the table, round the central object of a reading-lamp, which spoke plainly of studies by night. 'Why, what is all this?' cried the General. 'Are you going to leave me, Michael, and set up a school?' Michael answered in sad, submissive tones. 'I try to improve myself, sir—though I sometimes lose heart and hope.' 'Hope of what?' asked my uncle. 'Are you not content to be a servant? Must you rise in the world, as the saying is?' The groom shrank a little at that abrupt question. 'If I had relations to care for me and help me along the hard ways of life,' he said, 'I might be satisfied, sir, to remain as I am. As it is, I have no one to think about but myself—and I am foolish enough sometimes to look beyond myself.'
So far, I had kept silence; but I could no longer resist giving him a word of encouragement—his confession was so sadly and so patiently made. 'You speak too harshly of yourself,' I said; 'the best and greatest men have begun like you by looking beyond themselves.' For a moment our eyes met. I admired the poor lonely fellow trying so modestly and so bravely to teach himself—and I did not care to conceal it. He was the first to look away; some suppressed emotion turned him deadly pale. Was I the cause of it? I felt myself tremble as that bold question came into my mind. The General, with one sharp glance at me, diverted the talk (not very delicately, as I thought) to the misfortune of Michael's birth.
'I have heard of your being deserted in your infancy by some woman unknown,' he said. 'What has become of the things you were wrapped in, and the letter that was found on you? They might lead to a discovery, one of these days.' The groom smiled. 'The last master I served thought of it as you do, Sir. He was so good as to write to the gentleman who was first burdened with the care of me—and the things were sent to me in return.'
He took up an unlocked leather bag, which opened by touching a brass knob, and showed us the shawl, the linen (sadly faded by time) and the letter. We were puzzled by the shawl. My uncle, who had served in the East, thought it looked like a very rare kind of Persian work. We examined with interest the letter, and the fine linen. When Michael quietly remarked, as we handed them back to him, 'They keep the secret, you see,' we could only look at each other, and own there was nothing more to be said.
VII.
THAT night, lying awake thinking, I made my first discovery of a great change that had come over me. I felt like a new woman.
Never yet had my life been so enjoyable to me as it was now. I was conscious of a delicious lightness of heart. The simplest things pleased me; I was ready to be kind to everybody, and to admire everything. Even the familiar scenery of my rides in the park developed beauties which I had never noticed before. The enchantments of music affected me to tears. I was absolutely in love with my dogs and my birds—and, as for my maid, I bewildered the girl with presents, and gave her holidays almost before she could ask for them. In a bodily sense, I felt an extraordinary accession of strength and activity. I romped with the dear old General, and actually kissed Lady Claudia, one morning, instead of letting her kiss me as usual. My friends noticed my new outburst of gayety and spirit—and wondered what had produced it. I can honestly say that I wondered too! Only on that wakeful night which followed our visit to Michael's room did I arrive at something like a clear understanding of myself. The next morning completed the process of enlightenment. I went out riding as usual. The instant when Michael put his hand under my foot as I sprang into the saddle, his touch flew all over me like a flame. I knew who had made a new woman of me from that moment.
As to describing the first sense of confusion that overwhelmed me, even if I were a practiced writer I should be incapable of doing it. I pulled down my veil, and rode on in a sort of trance. Fortunately for me, our house looked on the park, and I had only to cross the road. Otherwise I should have met with some accident if I had ridden through the streets. To this day, I don't know where I rode. The horse went his own way quietly—and the groom followed me.
The groom! Is there any human creature so free from the hateful and anti-Christian pride of rank as a woman who loves with all her heart and soul, for the first time in her life? I only tell the truth (in however unfavorable a light it may place me) when I declare that my confusion was entirely due to the discovery that I was in love. I was not ashamed of myself for being in love with the groom. I had given my heart to the man. What did the accident of his position matter? Put money into his pocket and a title before his name—by another accident: in speech, manners, and attainments, he would be a gentleman worthy of his wealth and worthy of his rank.
