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James Rusk, jrusk@cyberramp.net.]





THE EVIL GENIUS

by Wilkie Colllins




A Domestic Story




Affectionately Dedicated
to Holman Hunt




BEFORE THE STORY.

Miss Westerfield's Education

1.--The Trial.

THE gentlemen of the jury retired to consider their verdict.

Their foreman was a person doubly distinguished among his
colleagues. He had the clearest head, and the readiest tongue.
For once the right man was in the right place.

Of the eleven jurymen, four showed their characters on the
surface. They were:

The hungry juryman, who wanted his dinner.

The inattentive juryman, who drew pictures on his blotting paper.

The nervous juryman, who suffered from fidgets.

The silent juryman, who decided the verdict.

Of the seven remaining members, one was a little drowsy man who
gave no trouble; one was an irritable invalid who served under
protest; and five represented that vast majority of the
population--easily governed, tranquilly happy--which has no
opinion of its own.



The foreman took his place at the head of the table. His
colleagues seated themselves on either side of him. Then there
fell upon that assembly of men a silence, never known among an
assembly of women--the silence which proceeds from a general
reluctance to be the person who speaks first.

It was the foreman's duty, under these circumstances, to treat
his deliberative brethren as we treat our watches when they stop:
he wound the jury up and set them going.

"Gentlemen," he began, "have you formed any decided opinion on
the case--thus far?"

Some of them said "Yes," and some of them said "No." The little
drowsy man said nothing. The fretful invalid cried, "Go on!" The
nervous juryman suddenly rose. His brethren all looked at him,
inspired by the same fear of having got an orator among them. He
was an essentially polite man; and he hastened to relieve their
minds. "Pray don't be alarmed, gentlemen: I am not going to make
a speech. I suffer from fidgets. Excuse me if I occasionally
change my position." The hungry juryman (who dined early) looked
at his watch. "Half-past four," he said. "For Heaven's sake cut
it short." He was the fattest person present; and he suggested a
subject to the inattentive juryman who drew pictures on his
blotting-paper. Deeply interested in the progress of the
likeness, his neighbors on either side looked over his shoulders.
The little drowsy man woke with a start, and begged pardon of
everybody. The fretful invalid said to himself, "Damned fools,
all of them!" The patient foreman, biding his time, stated the
case.

"The prisoner waiting our verdict, gentlemen, is the Honorable
Roderick Westerfield, younger brother of the present Lord Le
Basque. He is charged with willfully casting away the British
bark _John Jerniman_, under his command, for the purpose of
fraudulently obtaining a share of the insurance money; and
further of possessing himself of certain Brazilian diamonds,
which formed part of the cargo. In plain words, here is a
gentleman born in the higher ranks of life accused of being a
thief. Before we attempt to arrive at a decision, we shall only
be doing him justice if we try to form some general estimate of
his character, based on the evidence--and we may fairly begin by
inquiring into his relations with the noble family to which he
belongs. The evidence, so far, is not altogether creditable to
him. Being at the time an officer of the Royal Navy, he appears
to have outraged the feelings of his family by marrying a barmaid
at a public-house."

The drowsy juryman, happening to be awake at that moment,
surprised the foreman by interposing a statement. "Talking of
barmaids," he said, "I know a curate's daughter. She's in
distressed circumstances, poor thing; and she's a barmaid
somewhere in the north of England. Curiously enough, the name of
the town has escaped my memory. If we had a map of England--"
There he was interrupted, cruelly interrupted, by one of his
brethren.

"And by what right," cried the greedy juryman, speaking under the
exasperating influence of hunger--"by what right does Mr.
Westerfield's family dare to suppose that a barmaid may not be a
perfectly virtuous woman?"

Hearing this, the restless gentleman (in the act of changing his
position) was suddenly inspired with interest in the proceedings.
"Pardon me for putting myself forward," he said, with his
customary politeness. "Speaking as an abstainer from fermented
liquors, I must really protest against these allusions to
barmaids."

"Speaking as a consumer of fermented liquors," the invalid
remarked, "I wish I had a barmaid and a bottle of champagne
before me now."

Superior to interruption, the admirable foreman went on:

"Whatever you may think, gentlemen, of the prisoner's marriage,
we have it in evidence that his relatives turned their backs on
him from that moment--with the one merciful exception of the head
of the family. Lord Le Basque exerted his influence with the
Admiralty, and obtained for his brother (then out of employment)
an appointment to a ship. All the witnesses agree that Mr.
Westerfield thoroughly understood his profession. If he could
have controlled himself, he might have risen to high rank in the
Navy. His temper was his ruin. He quarreled with one of his
superior officers--"

"Under strong provocation," said a member of the jury.

"Under strong provocation," the foreman admitted. "But provocation
is not an excuse, judged by the rules of discipline. The prisoner
challenged the officer on duty to fight a duel, at the first
opportunity, on shore; and, receiving a contemptuous refusal,
struck him on the quarter-deck. As a matter of course, Mr.
Westerfield was tried by court-martial, and was dismissed the
service. Lord Le Basque's patience was not exhausted yet. The
Merchant Service offered a last chance to the prisoner of
retrieving his position, to some extent at least. He was fit for
the sea, and fit for nothing else. At my lord's earnest request
the owners of the _John Jerniman_, trading between Liverpool and
Rio, took Mr. Westerfield on trial as first mate, and, to his
credit be it said, he justified his brother's faith in him. In a
tempest off the coast of Africa the captain was washed overboard
and the first mate succeeded to the command. His seamanship and
courage saved the vessel, under circumstances of danger which
paralyzed the efforts of the other officers.. He was confirmed,
rightly confirmed, in the command of the ship. And, so far, we
shall certainly not be wrong if we view his character on the
favorable side."

There the foreman paused, to collect his ideas.

Certain members of the assembly--led by the juryman who wanted
his dinner, and supported by his inattentive colleague, then
engaged in drawing a ship in a storm, and a captain falling
overboard--proposed the acquittal of the prisoner without further
consideration. But the fretful invalid cried "Stuff!" and the
five jurymen who had no opinions of their own, struck by the
admirable brevity with which he expressed his sentiments, sang
out in chorus, "Hear! hear! hear!" The silent juryman, hitherto
overlooked, now attracted attention. He was a bald-headed person
of uncertain age, buttoned up tight in a long frockcoat, and
wearing his gloves all through the proceedings. When the chorus
of five cheered, he smiled mysteriously. Everybody wondered what
that smile meant. The silent juryman kept his opinion to himself.
From that moment he began to exercise a furtive influence over
the jury. Even the foreman looked at him, on resuming the
narrative.

"After a certain term of service, gentlemen, during which we
learn nothing to his disadvantage, the prisoner's merits appear
to have received their reward. He was presented with a share in
the ship which he commanded, in addition to his regular salary as
master. With these improved prospects he sailed from Liverpool on
his last voyage to Brazil; and no one, his wife included, had the
faintest suspicion that he left England under circumstances of
serious pecuniary embarrassment. The testimony of his creditors,
and of other persons with whom he associated distinctly proves
that his leisure hours on shore had been employed in card-playing
and in betting on horse races. After an unusually long run of
luck, his good fortune seems to have deserted him. He suffered
considerable losses, and was at last driven to borrowing at a
high rate of interest, without any reasonable prospect of being
able to repay the money-lenders into whose hands he had fallen.
When he left Rio on the homeward voyage, there is no sort of
doubt that he was returning to England to face creditors whom he
was unable to pay. There, gentlemen, is a noticeable side to his
character which we may call the gambling side, and which (as I
think) was too leniently viewed by the judge."

He evidently intended to add a word or two more. But the
disagreeable invalid insisted on being heard.

"In plain English," he said, "you are for finding the prisoner
guilty."

"In plain English," the foreman rejoined, "I refuse to answer
that question."

"Why?"

"Because it is no part of my duty to attempt to influence the
verdict."

"You have been trying to influence the verdict, sir, ever since
you entered this room. I appeal to all the gentlemen present."

The patience of the long-suffering foreman failed him at last.
"Not another word shall pass my lips," he said, "until you find
the prisoner guilty or not guilty among yourselves--and then I'll
tell you if I agree to your verdict."

He folded his arms, and looked like the image of a man who
intended to keep his word.

The hungry juryman laid himself back in his chair, and groaned.
The amateur artist, who had thus far found a fund of amusement in
his blotting-paper, yawned discontentedly and dropped his pen.
The courteous gentleman who suffered from fidgets requested leave
to walk up and down the room; and at the first turn he took woke
the drowsy little man, and maddened the irritable invalid by the
creaking of his boots. The chorus of five, further than ever from
arriving at an opinion of their own, looked at the silent
juryman. Once more he smiled mysteriously; and once more he
offered an explanation of what was passing in his mind--except
that he turned his bald head slowly in the direction of the
foreman. Was he in sympathy with a man who had promised to be as
silent as himself?

In the meantime, nothing was said or done. Helpless silence
prevailed in every part of the room.

"Why the devil doesn't somebody begin?" cried the invalid. "Have
you all forgotten the evidence?"

This startling question roused the jury to a sense of what was
due to their oaths, if not to themselves. Some of them
recollected the evidence in one way, and some of them recollected
it in another; and each man insisted on doing justice to his own
excellent memory, and on stating his own unanswerable view of the
case.

The first man who spoke began at the middle of the story told by
the witnesses in court. "I am for acquitting the captain,
gentlemen; he ordered out the boats, and saved the lives of the
crew."--"And I am for finding him guilty, because the ship struck
on a rock in broad daylight, and in moderate weather."--"I agree
with you, sir. The evidence shows that the vessel was steered
dangerously near to the land, by direction of the captain, who
gave the course."--"Come, come, gentlemen! let us do the captain
justice. The defense declares that he gave the customary course,
and that it was not followed when he left the deck. As for his
leaving the ship in moderate weather, the evidence proves that he
believed he saw signs of a storm brewing."--"Yes, yes, all very
well, but what were the facts? When the loss of the ship was
reported, the Brazilian authorities sent men to the wreck, on the
chance of saving the cargo; and, days afterward, there the ship
was found, just as the captain and the crew had left
her."--"Don't forget, sir, that the diamonds were missing when
the salvors examined the wreck."--"All right, but that's no proof
that the captain stole the diamonds; and, before they had saved
half the cargo, a storm did come on and break the vessel up; so
the poor man was only wrong in the matter of time, after
all."--"Allow me to remind you, gentlemen that the prisoner was
deeply in debt, and therefore had an interest in stealing the
diamonds."--"Wait a little, sir. Fair play's a jewel. Who was in
charge of the deck when the ship struck? The second mate. And
what did the second mate do, when he heard that his owners had
decided to prosecute? He committed suicide! Is there no proof of
guilt in that act?"--"You are going a little too fast, sir. The
coroner's jury declared that the second mate killed himself in a
state of temporary insanity."--"Gently! gently! we have nothing
to do with what the coroner's jury said. What did the judge say
when he summed up?"--"Bother the judge! He said what they all
say: 'Find the prisoner guilty, if you think he did it; and find
him not guilty, if you think he didn't.' And then he went away to
his comfortable cup of tea in his private room. And here are we
perishing of hunger, and our families dining without us."--"Speak
for yourself, sir, _I_ haven't got a family."--"Consider yourself
lucky, sir; _I_ have got twelve, and my life is a burden to me,
owing to the difficulty of making both ends meet."--"Gentlemen!
gentlemen! we are wandering again. Is the captain guilty or not?
Mr. Foreman, we none of us intended to offend you. Will you tell
us what _you_ think?"

No; the foreman kept his word. "Decide for yourselves first," was
his only reply.

In this emergency, the member afflicted with fidgets suddenly
assumed a position of importance. He started a new idea.

"Suppose we try a show of hands," he suggested. "Gentlemen who
find the prisoner guilty will please hold up their hands."

Three votes were at once registered in this way, including the
vote of the foreman. After a moment of doubt, the chorus of five
decided on following the opinion which happened to be the first
opinion expressed in point of time. Thereupon, the show of hands
for the condemnation of the prisoner rose to eight. Would this
result have an effect on the undecided minority of four? In any
case, they were invited to declare themselves next. Only three
hands were held up. One incomprehensible man abstained from
expressing his sentiments even by a sign. Is it necessary to say
who that man was? A mysterious change had now presented itself in
his appearance, which made him an object of greater interest than
ever. His inexplicable smile had vanished. He sat immovable, with
closed eyes. Was he meditating profoundly? or was he only asleep?
The quick-witted foreman had long since suspected him of being
simply the stupidest person present--with just cunning enough to
conceal his own dullness by holding his tongue. The jury arrived
at no such sensible conclusion. Impressed by the intense
solemnity of his countenance, they believed him to be absorbed in
reflections of the utmost importance to the verdict. After a
heated conference among themselves, they decided on inviting the
one independent member present--the member who had taken no part
in their proceedings--to declare his opinion in the plainest
possible form. "Which way does your view of the verdict incline,
sir? Guilty or not guilty?"

The eyes of the silent juryman opened with the slow and solemn
dilation of the eyes of an owl. Placed between the alternatives
of declaring himself in one word or in two, his taciturn wisdom
chose the shortest form of speech. "Guilty," he answered--and
shut his eyes again, as if he had had enough of it already.

An unutterable sense of relief pervaded the meeting. Enmities
were forgotten and friendly looks were exchanged. With one
accord, the jury rose to return to court. The prisoner's fate was
sealed. The verdict was Guilty.


2.--The Sentence.


The low hum of talk among the persons in court ceased when the
jury returned to their places. Curiosity now found its center of
attraction in the prisoner's wife--who had been present
throughout the trial. The question of the moment was: How will
she bear the interval of delay which precedes the giving of the
verdict?

In the popular phrase, Mrs. Westerfield was a showy woman. Her
commanding figure was finely robed in dark colors; her profuse
light hair hung over her forehead in little clusters of ringlets;
her features, firmly but not delicately shaped, were on a large
scale. No outward betrayal of the wife's emotion rewarded the
public curiosity: her bold light-gray eyes sustained the general
gaze without flinching. To the surprise of the women present, she
had brought her two young children with her to the trial. The
eldest was a pretty little girl of ten years old; the second
child (a boy) sat on his mother's knee. It was generally observed
that Mrs. Westerfield took no notice of her eldest child. When
she whispered a word from time to time, it was always addressed
to her son. She fondled him when he grew restless; but she never
looked round to see if the girl at her side was as weary of the
proceedings as the boy.

The judge took his seat, and the order was given to bring the
prisoner up for judgment.

There was a long pause. The audience--remembering his ghastly
face when he first appeared before them--whispered to each other,
"He's taken ill"; and the audience proved to be right.

The surgeon of the prison entered the witness-box, and, being
duly sworn, made his medical statement.

The prisoner's heart had been diseased for some time past, and
the malady had been neglected. He had fainted under the prolonged
suspense of waiting for the verdict. The swoon had proved to be
of such a serious nature that the witness refused to answer for
consequences if a second fainting-fit was produced by the
excitement of facing the court and the jury.

Under these circumstances, the verdict was formally recorded, and
sentence was deferred. Once more, the spectators looked at the
prisoner's wife.

She had risen to leave the court. In the event of an adverse
verdict, her husband had asked for a farewell interview; and the
governor of the prison, after consultation with the surgeon, had
granted the request. It was observed, when she retired, that she
held her boy by the hand, and left the girl to follow. A
compassionate lady near her offered to take care of the children
while she was absent. Mrs. Westerfield answered quietly and
coldly: "Thank you--their father wishes to see them."

The prisoner was dying; nobody could look at him and doubt it.

His eyes opened wearily, when his wife and children approached
the bed on which he lay helpless--the wreck of a grandly-made
man. He struggled for breath, but he could still speak a word or
two at a time. "I don't ask you what the verdict is," he said to
his wife; "I see it in your face."

Tearless and silent, she waited by her husband's side. He had
only noticed her for a moment. All his interest seemed to be
centered in his children. The girl stood nearest to him, he
looked at her with a faint smile.

The poor child understood him. Crying piteously, she put her arms
around his neck and kissed him. "Dear papa," she said; "come home
and let me nurse you."

The surgeon, watching the father's face, saw a change in him
which the other persons present had not observed. The failing
heart felt that parting moment, and sank under it. "Take the
child away," the surgeon whispered to the mother. Brandy was near
him; he administered it while he spoke, and touched the
fluttering pulse. It felt, just felt, the stimulant. He revived
for a moment, and looked wistfully for his son. "The boy," he
murmured; "I want my boy." As his wife brought the child to him,
the surgeon whispered to her again. "If you have anything to say
to him be quick about it!" She shuddered; she took his cold hand.
Her touch seemed to nerve him with new strength; he asked her to
stoop over him. "They won't let me write here," he whispered,
"unless they see my letter." He paused to get his breath again.
"Lift up my left arm," he gasped. "Open the wrist-band."

She detached the stud which closed the wrist-band of the shirt.
On the inner side of the linen there was a line written in red
letters--red of the color of blood. She saw these words: _Look in
the lining of my trunk._

"What for?" she asked.

The fading light in his eyes flashed on her a dreadful look of
doubt. His lips fell apart in the vain effort to answer. His last
sigh fluttered the light ringlets of her hair as she bent over
him.

The surgeon pointed to her children. "Take the poor things home,"
he said; "they have seen the last of their father."

Mrs. Westerfield obeyed in silence. She had her own reasons for
being in a hurry to get home. Leaving the children under the
servant's care, she locked herself up in the dead man's room, and
emptied his trunk of the few clothes that had been left in it.

The lining which she was now to examine was of the customary
material, and of the usual striped pattern in blue and white. Her
fingers were not sufficiently sensitive to feel anything under
the surface, when she tried it with her hand. Turning the empty
trunk with the inner side of the lid toward the light, she
discovered, on one of the blue stripes of the lining, a thin
little shining stain which looked like a stain of dried gum.
After a moment's consideration, she cut the gummed line with a
penknife. Something of a white color appeared through the
aperture. She drew out a folded sheet of paper.

It proved to be a letter in her husband's hand-writing. An
inclosure dropped to the floor when she opened it, in the shape
of a small slip of paper. She picked it up. The morsel of paper
presented letters, figures, and crosses arranged in lines, and
mingled together in what looked like hopeless confusion.


3.--The Letter.


Mrs. Westerfield laid the incomprehensible slip of paper aside,
and, in search of an explanation, returned to the letter. Here
again she found herself in a state of perplexity. Directed to
"Mrs. Roderick Westerfield," the letter began abruptly, without
the customary form of address. Did it mean that her husband was
angry with her when he wrote? It meant that he doubted her.

In these terms he expressed himself:



"I write to you before my trial takes place. If the verdict goes
in my favor, I shall destroy what I have written. If I am found
guilty, I must leave it to you to do what I should otherwise have
done for myself.

"The undeserved misfortune that has overtaken me began with the
arrival of my ship in the port of Rio. Our second mate (his duty
for the day being done) asked leave to go on shore--and never
returned. What motive determined him on deserting, I am not able
to say. It was my own wish to supply his place by promoting the
best seaman on board. My owners' agents overruled me, and
appointed a man of their own choosing.

"What nation he belonged to I don't know. The name he gave me was
Beljames, and he was reported to be a broken-down gentleman.
Whoever he might be, his manner and his talk were captivating.
Everybody liked him.

"After the two calamities of the loss of the ship and the
disappearance of the diamonds--these last being valued at five
thousand pounds--I returned to England by the first opportunity
that offered, having Beljames for a companion.

"Shortly after getting back to my house in London, I was
privately warned by a good friend that my owners had decided to
prosecute me for willfully casting away the ship, and (crueler
still) for having stolen the missing diamonds. The second mate,
who had been in command of the vessel when she struck on the
rock, was similarly charged along with me. Knowing myself to be
innocent, I determined, of course, to stand my trial. My wonder
was, what Beljames would do. Would he follow my example? or, if
he got the chance, would he try to make his escape?

"I might have thought it only friendly to give this person a word
of warning, if I had known where to find him. We had separated
when the ship reached the port of Falmouth, in Cornwall, and had
not met since. I gave him my address in London; but he gave me no
address in return.

"On the voyage home, Beljames told me that a legacy had been left
to him; being a small freehold house and garden in St. John's
Wood, London. His agent, writing to him on the subject, had
reported the place to be sadly out of repair, and had advised him
to find somebody who would take it off his hands on reasonable terms.
This seemed to point to a likelihood of his being still in London,
trying to sell his house.

"While my mind was running on these recollections, I was told
that a decent elderly woman wanted to see me. She proved to be
the landlady of the house in which Beljames lodged; and she
brought an alarming message. The man was dying, and desired to
see me. I went to him immediately.

"Few words are best, when one has to write about one's own
troubles.

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