THE CONFESSION OF BROOKS
We left Valoro a few days after the great festival of the New Year,
which came as a fitting finale to all our gaiety.
Christmas had been a quiet, sedate feast in the nature of a Sunday. We
left just as the premonitory signs of the rainy season were making
themselves apparent.
St. Nivel's friends, the American attachés, told him that we were well
out of it, as the rains were torrential.
Dolores and I commenced the journey with much satisfaction; up to the
last we had feared that Don Juan might have altered his mind and left
his daughter at home, but I think the old gentleman began to
understand, if he thought about it at all, that if he left Dolores
behind, he would also have to leave me too.
Our departure was on the morrow of a great banquet, given by Don Juan
to many of the notabilities of Valoro in our honour.
It was one of the grandest dinners I was ever present at, and the
display of ladies' dresses and jewels would have done credit to a court
function at home. But I think the sweet simple beauty of Dolores and
my cousin Ethel took the palm. On this occasion I took in to dinner a
grave and important donna with a distinct beard and moustache. I was
told that she was a model of piety and that _all_--or nearly all--pious
old ladies in Aquazilia had beards and moustaches!
Dolores sat opposite me on this occasion, and the way in which a young
military attaché of Brazil paid her attention under my very nose,
stamped him at once in my estimation, with his curled-up moustache, as
a mere puppy!
I am sure Dolores thought so too, although she _did_ listen to his
trashy conversation, because when we were saying "good-night"--hastily
under one of the big palms on the terrace--oh! if he could have seen
us--she told me with her two dear arms round my neck that she only
loved me, and I was not to look so _jealous_ another time at a
dinner-party, but talk to my partner whether she had a beard and
moustache or not. Just as if I _could_ look jealous and of _such_ a
man!
And so we left Aquazilia behind with its sunshine and lavish
hospitality, and took ship again--the dear old _Oceana_--for our own
foggy island, which I did not much relish returning to in February.
But Dolores was with me and she made sunshine everywhere.
We had been a fortnight on our return voyage, when an incident occurred
which filled me with surprise and concern.
It was one of those grey days at sea when the prospect of the mingled
ocean and sky is not very attractive.
St. Nivel was in the smoking-room; Dolores and Ethel were in the
state-room of the latter, holding one of those long important feminine
conferences--most delightful, I understood, to themselves--in which
dress was the _pièce de résistance_, with perhaps a little gossip about
Ethel's conquests in Aquazilia; they were legion! Mrs. Darbyshire was
asleep in her state-room, and as for the dear old man, Don Juan, whom I
looked upon now as my future father-in-law, he was studying assiduously
a book he had picked up in the ship's library, _Reptiles of England,
Scotland, and Wales_.
Simple soul! He might just as well have studied the snakes of Ireland
for all he would see of them in England at that time of the year,
unless he went to the Zoo, and then I understand he would not see much.
Our party being thus disposed of, I was sitting alone in a sheltered
part of the promenade deck--for there was a bit of a wind--rather
depressed at the dreary grey prospect I was contemplating. I was
absolutely alone.
Perhaps I had been sitting thus half an hour, wrapped up in a Burberry,
when I heard a soft footstep approaching, and my man Brooks stood
before me. I noticed that he too looked depressed, and I put his
expression down too to the effect of the weather. He stood there for a
moment in silence, then preferred a request.
"May I speak to you for a few minutes, sir?" he asked.
I straightened myself up in my deck chair, and took a good look at him;
he certainly appeared very solemn, as if he had got something on his
mind.
"Certainly, Brooks," I answered, "what's the matter?"
The man had been a most excellent servant, and indeed I considered I
owed my life to him, and perhaps Dolores' as well, for had he not
handed me my Colt's revolver on that memorable night when the train was
attacked, and I was being carried off by the supposed robbers? He
availed himself of his permission to speak very slowly; he appeared to
be turning something over in his mind, and whatever it was, was
apparently not very agreeable. He stood at "attention," the habit of
an old soldier, with his forehead puckered; at last his lips opened,
and he commenced what he had to say.
"When you engaged me, sir," he began, "you were under the impression
that I was a straightforward English servant. Sir," he added, "I was
nothing of the sort."
I looked at his bronzed, clean-shaven face, fair hair and soldier's
blue eyes, in wonderment.
"What are you talking about, Brooks?" I asked. The man's tone
disturbed me. I had grown quite fond of him, and feared he was going
to give notice. He was a most perfect valet, the best by far that I
had ever come across.
"You thought I was straight, sir," he continued, "and I wasn't. It was
like this, sir: when I left the army I was taken as valet by the Dook
of Birmingham; his brother had been an officer in my old regiment, and
I had been his servant.
"I lived with the Dook over two year, and then when we were staying in
a big house near Sandringham there was some jewellery of the Dook's
missed, and His Grace told me that, although he made no charge against
me, he should get another valet.
"I give you my word, sir, as I stand here, that I knew nothing of the
missing jewellery. I was as innocent of stealing it as a babe unborn.
"But I knew perfectly well that the thing would stand against me, and
that I should be a marked man; indeed, there was a good deal of talk
about it in the housekeeper's room among the other upper servants.
About this time the valet of a great foreign duke, who happened to be
also staying in the neighbourhood, and himself a foreigner, came to me
one day when I was very downhearted, and asked me to come over to the
great house where he was staying and drink a bottle of Rhine wine with
him. I went, and he showed me your advertisement, and told me he
thought it would be a good thing for me.
"I thought so too, but I did not believe that you would be likely to
take me if you were told why I was leaving the Dook, as I have no doubt
you would have been.
"I mentioned this to the foreign valet, and he said he thought he knew
a gentleman who would help me, and perhaps I had better go and see him
first. By his direction, sir, I went to see a gentleman at the Langham
Hotel in London, a Mr. Saumarez."
"Saumarez?" I exclaimed. "What was he like?"
"He was a dark gentleman, sir, and he had got something the matter with
one of his eyes."
"Thank you," I said, "go on. I think I know who the gentleman was."
"He asked me to confide in him, sir, and I told him everything, and the
difficulty I feared I should have in finding another situation.
"After some conversation he said he thought I certainly ought to try
for your situation, and that if I succeeded to come and let him know,
and he would see about the character without troubling the Dook.
"As you know, sir, you were good enough to entertain my application,
and I then went straight away to Mr. Saumarez to ask him what I was to
do.
"He said that on certain conditions a friend of his would give me a
character."
"That was Captain FitzJames, I suppose?" I interrupted.
"Exactly, sir," Brooks replied, "the gentleman who you supposed I had
been living with."
"This is pretty bad, Brooks," I said gravely, looking away at the grey
horizon. In my heart I was thoroughly sorry for the man. And he was
such a good valet, too! No wonder, for he had lived with one of the
richest dukes in England.
"Yes, it is pretty bad, sir," he continued, "but not as bad as what's
to come. I asked Mr. Saumarez what conditions he required of me, and
he told me. First, I was to keep him informed daily of every movement
of yours; secondly, I was to be ready to act under his orders in
certain 'simple matters.' He explained that these simple matters would
consist in 'little acts which would harm no one.'
"At first I was inclined to walk out of the room and leave him, and I
think he saw my intention, for he held up his hand and went on further.
"He told me plainly that I was entirely in his power, and that he could
prevent me getting a situation at all if he chose. I had told him I
had a wife and two children depending on me--although I deceived you,
sir, in that matter under his advice. He asked me now whether I wished
them to starve. He pointed out that if I accepted his terms he would
double my wages, so that I could leave my little family in comfort. I
couldn't bear to think they would be in want, sir. I felt certain I
had fallen among a bad lot, and believed myself to be powerless. In
the end, sir, like a fool, I gave in and agreed to his terms.
"Now just listen, sir, how I betrayed you.
"I wrote every day to Mr. Saumarez and told him of every movement of
yours, especially the going to the solicitors; he wanted to know all
about that.
"You will remember the last time you went there, just before we went to
Euston on our way to Liverpool? Well, that newspaper man running along
and knocking me down, and the lady and gentleman coming up and brushing
you down, was all a put-up job. I was told to fall down and keep out
of the way to give the others time to act. Of course, it was they who
cut your coat open.
"I wonder you can listen to me, sir."
"Go on," I said.
"I knew they hadn't got what they wanted, because there was a long
telegram waiting for me at Liverpool on board, and I was told to keep
up communication with Saumarez by Marconograms. So, I did; I did all
they wished until the train was held up, and then, sir, when I saw you
stripped by those greasers, and about being carried off, I could stand
it no longer. I made my mind up to throw Saumarez over and protect
you; it was then that I went and fetched your revolver and put it in
your hand. Since then I have kept on giving them information, but it
is all false.
"I couldn't bear the worry of it any longer. I laid awake all last
night, and this morning I made up my mind to come and tell you
everything.
"I know you will discharge me, sir, and I deserve it.
"I only have to humbly ask your pardon for betraying you, and
forgetting I was once an English soldier."
He finished, standing before me, white, and with quivering lips. As he
ceased speaking, I could not help remembering that, at any rate, he had
saved my life in all probability, and that which was far dearer to me
than life, the honour of Dolores.
I turned to him.
"For the present," I said, as kindly as I could under the
circumstances, "continue to do your duties, and I will consider what I
must do."
"If I could only think you would give me another chance, sir----" he
said, eagerly taking a step forward.
"I cannot promise," I said. "I must consider."