Book: The Evil Genius

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Evil Genius




"Beljames had heard of the intended prosecution. How he had been
made aware of it, death left him no time to tell me. The
miserable wretch had poisoned himself--whether in terror of
standing his trial, or in remorse of conscience, it is not any
business of mine to decide. Most unluckily for me, he first
ordered the doctor and the landlady out of the room; and then,
when we two were alone, owned that he had purposely altered the
course of the ship, and had stolen the diamonds.

"To do him justice, he was eager to save me from suffering for
his fault.

"Having eased his mind by confession, he gave me the slip of
paper (written in cipher) which you will find inclosed in this.
'There is my note of the place where the diamonds are hidden,' he
said. Among the many ignorant people who know nothing of ciphers,
I am one--and I told him so. 'That's how I keep my secret,' he
said; 'write from my dictation, and you shall know what it means.
Lift me up first.' As I did it, he rolled his head to and fro,
evidently in pain. But he managed to point to pen, ink, and
paper, on a table hard by, on which his doctor had been writing.
I left him for a moment, to pull the table nearer to the bed--and
in that moment he groaned, and cried out for help. I ran to the
room downstairs where the doctor was waiting. When we got back to
him he was in convulsions. It was all over with Beljames.

"The lawyers who are to defend me have tried to get Experts, as
they call them, to interpret the cipher. The Experts have all
failed. They will declare, if they are called as witnesses, that
the signs on the paper are not according to any known rules, and
are marks made at random, meaning nothing.

"As for any statement, on my part, of the confession made to me,
the law refuses to hear it, except from the mouth of a witness. I
might prove that the ship's course was changed, contrary to my
directions, after I had gone below to rest, if I could find the
man who was steering at the time. God only knows where that man
is.

"On the other hand, the errors of my past life, and my being in
debt, are circumstances dead against me. The lawyers seem to
trust almost entirely in a famous counsel, whom they have engaged
to defend me. For my own part, I go to my trial with little or no
hope.

"If the verdict is guilty, and if you have any regard left for my
character, never rest until you have found somebody who can
interpret these cursed signs. Do for me, I say, what I cannot do
for myself. Recover the diamonds; and, when you restore them,
show my owners this letter.

"Kiss the children for me. I wish them, when they are old enough,
to read this defense of myself and to know that their father, who
loved them dearly, was an innocent man. My good brother will take
care of you, for my sake. I have done.

RODERICK WESTERFIELD."


Mrs. Westerfield took up the cipher once more. She looked at it
as if it were a living thing that defied her.

"If I am able to read this gibberish," she decided, "I know what
I'll do with the diamonds!"

4.--The Garret.

One year exactly after the fatal day of the trial, Mrs.
Westerfield (secluded in the sanctuary of her bedroom) celebrated
her release from the obligation of wearing widow's weeds.

The conventional graduations in the outward expression of grief,
which lead from black clothing to gray, formed no part of this
afflicted lady's system of mourning. She laid her best blue
walking dress and her new bonnet to match on the bed, and admired
them to her heart's content. Her discarded garments were left on
the floor. "Thank Heaven, I've done with you!" she said--and
kicked her rusty mourning out of the way as she advanced to the
fireplace to ring the bell.

"Where is my little boy?" she asked, when the landlady entered
the room.

"He's down with me in the kitchen, ma'am; I'm teaching him to
make a plum cake for himself. He's so happy! I hope you don't
want him just now?"

"Not the least in the world. I want you to take care of him while
I am away. By-the-by, where's Syd?"

The elder child (the girl) had been christened Sydney, in
compliment to one of her father's female relatives. The name was
not liked by her mother--who had shortened it to Syd, by way of
leaving as little of it as possible. With a look at Mrs.
Westerfield which expressed ill-concealed aversion, the landlady
answered: "She's up in the lumber-room, poor child. She says you
sent her there to be out of the way."

"Ah, to be sure, I did."

"There's no fireplace in the garret, ma'am. I'm afraid the little
girl must be cold and lonely."

It was useless to plead for Syd--Mrs. Westerfield was not
listening. Her attention was absorbed by her own plump and pretty
hands. She took a tiny file from the dressing-table, and put a
few finishing touches to her nails. "Send me some hot water," she
said; "I want to dress."

The servant girl who carried the hot water upstairs was new to
the ways of the house. After having waited on Mrs. Westerfield,
she had been instructed by the kind-hearted landlady to go on to
the top floor. "You will find a pretty little girl in the garret,
all by herself. Say you are to bring her down to my room, as soon
as her mamma has gone out."

Mrs. Westerfield's habitual neglect of her eldest child was known
to every person in the house. Even the new servant had heard of
it. Interested by what she saw, on opening the garret door, she
stopped on the threshold and looked in.

The lumber in the room consisted of two rotten old trunks, a
broken chair, and a dirty volume of sermons of the old-fashioned
quarto size. The grimy ceiling, slanting downward to a cracked
window, was stained with rain that had found its way through the
roof. The faded wall-paper, loosened by damp, was torn away in
some places, and bulged loose in others. There were holes in the
skirting-board; and from one of them peeped the brightly timid
eyes of the child's only living companion in the garret--a mouse,
feeding on crumbs which she had saved from her breakfast.

Syd looked up when the mouse darted back into its hole, on the
opening of the door. "Lizzie! Lizzie!" she said, gravely, "you
ought to have come in without making a noise. You have frightened
away my youngest child."

The good-natured servant burst out laughing. "Have you got a
large family, miss?" she inquired, humoring the joke.

Syd failed to see the joke. "Only two more," she answered as
gravely as ever--and lifted up from the floor two miserable
dolls, reduced to the last extremity of dirt and dilapidation.
"My two eldest," this strange child resumed, setting up the dolls
against one of the empty trunks. "The eldest is a girl, and her
name is Syd. The other is a boy, untidy in his clothes, as you
see. Their kind mamma forgives them when they are naughty, and
buys ponies for them to ride on, and always has something nice
for them to eat when they are hungry. Have you got a kind mamma,
Lizzie? And are you very fond of her?"

Those innocent allusions to the neglect which was the one sad
experience of Syd's young life touched the servant's heart. A
bygone time was present to her memory, when she too had been left
without a playfellow to keep her company or a fire to warm her,
and she had not endured it patiently.

"Oh, my dear," she said, "your poor little arms are red with
cold. Come to me and let me rub them."

But Syd's bright imagination was a better protection against the
cold than all the rubbing that the hands of a merciful woman
could offer. "You are very kind, Lizzie," she answered. "I don't
feel the cold when I am playing with my children. I am very
careful to give them plenty of exercise, we are going to walk in
the Park."

She gave a hand to each of the dolls, and walked slowly round
and round the miserable room, pointing out visionary persons of
distinction and objects of interest. "Here's the queen, my dears,
in her gilt coach, drawn by six horses. Do you see her scepter
poking out of the carriage window? She governs the nation with
that. Bow to the queen. And now look at the beautiful bright
water. There's the island where the ducks live. Ducks are happy
creatures. They have their own way in everything, and they're
good to eat when they're dead. At least they used to be good,
when we had nice dinners in papa's time. I try to amuse the poor
little things, Lizzie. Their papa is dead. I'm obliged to be papa
and mamma to them, both in one. Do you feel the cold, my dears?"
She shivered as she questioned her imaginary children. "Now we
are at home again," she said, and led the dolls to the empty
fireplace. "Roaring fires always in _my_ house," cried the
resolute little creature, rubbing her hands cheerfully before the
bleak blank grate.

Warm-hearted Lizzie could control herself no longer.

"If the child would only make some complaint," she burst out, "it
wouldn't be so dreadful! Oh, what a shame! what a shame!" she
cried, to the astonishment of little Syd. "Come down, my dear, to
the nice warm room where your brother is. Oh, your mother? I
don't care if your mother sees us; I should like to give your
mother a piece of my mind. There! I don't mean to frighten you;
I'm one of your bad children--I fly into a passion. You carry the
dolls and I'll carry _you_. Oh, how she shivers! Give us a kiss."

Sympathy which expressed itself in this way was new to Syd. Her
eyes opened wide in childish wonder--and suddenly closed again in
childish terror, when her good friend the servant passed Mrs.
Westerfield's door on the way downstairs. "If mamma bounces out
on us," she whispered, "pretend we don't see her." The nice warm
room received them in safety. Under no stress of circumstances
had Mrs. Westerfield ever been known to dress herself in a hurry.
A good half-hour more had passed before the house door was heard
to bang--and the pleasant landlady, peeping through the window,
said: "There she goes. Now, we'll enjoy ourselves!"

5.--The Landlord.

Mrs. Westerfield's destination was the public-house in which she
had been once employed as a barmaid. Entering the place without
hesitation, she sent in her card to the landlord. He opened the
parlor door himself and invited her to walk in.

"You wear well," he said, admiring her. "Have you come back here
to be my barmaid again?"

"Do you think I am reduced to that?" she answered.

"Well, my dear, more unlikely things have happened. They tell me
you depend for your income on Lord Le Basque--and his lordship's
death was in the newspapers last week."

"And his lordship's lawyers continue my allowance."

Having smartly set the landlord right in those words, she had not
thought it necessary to add that Lady Le Basque, continuing the
allowance at her husband's request, had also notified that it
would cease if Mrs. Westerfield married again.

"You're a lucky woman," the landlord remarked. "Well, I'm glad to
see you. What will you take to drink?"

"Nothing, thank you. I want to know if you have heard anything
lately of James Bellbridge?"

The landlord was a popular person in his own circle--not
accustomed to restrain himself when he saw his way to a joke.
"Here's constancy!" he said. "She's sweet on James, after having
jilted him twelve years ago!"

Mrs. Westerfield replied with dignity. "I am accustomed to be
treated respectfully," she replied. "I wish you good-morning."

The easy landlord pressed her back into her chair. "Don't be a
fool," he said; "James is in London--James is staying in my
house. What do you think of that?"

Mrs. Westerfield's bold gray eyes expressed eager curiosity and
interest. "You don't mean that he is going to be barman here
again?"

"No such luck, my dear; he is a gentleman at large, who
patronizes my house."

Mrs. Westerfield went on with her questions.

"Has he left America for good?"

"Not he! James Bellbridge is going back to New York, to open a
saloon (as they call it) in partnership with another man. He's in
England, he says, on business. It's my belief that he wants money
for this new venture on bad security. They're smart people in New
York. His only chance of getting his bills discounted is to
humbug his relations, down in the country."

"When does he go to the country?"

"He's there now."

"When does he come back?"

"You're determined to see him, it appears. He comes back
to-morrow."

"Is he married?"

"Aha! now we're coming to the point. Make your mind easy. Plenty
of women have set the trap for him, but he has not walked into it
yet. Shall I give him your love?"

"Yes," she said, coolly. "As much love as you please."

"Meaning marriage?" the landlord inquired.

"And money," Mrs. Westerfield added.

"Lord Le Basque's money."

"Lord Le Basque's money may go to the Devil!"

"Hullo! Your language reminds me of the time when you were a
barmaid. You don't mean to say you have had a fortune left you?"

"I do! Will you give a message to James?"

"I'll do anything for a lady with a fortune."

"Tell him to come and drink tea with his old sweetheart tomorrow,
at six o'clock."

"He won't do it."

"He will."

With that difference of opinion, they parted.

6.--The Brute.

To-morrow came--and Mrs. Westerfield's faithful James justified
her confidence in him.

"Oh, Jemmy, how glad I am to see you! You dear, dear fellow. I'm
yours at last."

"That depends, my lady, on whether I want you. Let go of my
neck."

The man who entered this protest against imprisonment in the arms
of a fine woman, was one of the human beings who are grown to
perfection on English soil. He had the fat face, the pink
complexion, the hard blue eyes, the scanty yellow hair, the smile
with no meaning in it, the tremendous neck and shoulders, the
mighty fists and feet, which are seen in complete combination in
England only. Men of this breed possess a nervous system without
being aware of it; suffer affliction without feeling it; exercise
courage without a sense of danger; marry without love; eat and
drink without limit; and sink (big as they are), when disease
attacks them, without an effort to live.

Mrs. Westerfield released her guest's bull-neck at the word of
command. It was impossible not to submit to him--he was so
brutal. Impossible not to admire him--he was so big.

"Have you no love left for me?" was all she ventured to say.

He took the reproof good-humoredly. "Love?" he repeated. "Come! I
like that--after throwing me over for a man with a handle to his
name. Which am I to call you: 'Mrs?' or 'My Lady'?"

"Call me your own. What is there to laugh at, Jemmy? You used to
be fond of me; you would never have gone to America, when I
married Westerfield, if I hadn't been dear to you. Oh, if I'm
sure of anything, I'm sure of that! You wouldn't bear malice,
dear, if you only knew how cruelly I have been disappointed."

He suddenly showed an interest in what she was saying: the brute
became cheery and confidential. "So he made you a bad husband,
did he? Up with his fist and knocked you down, I daresay, if the
truth was known?"

"You're all in the wrong, dear. He would have been a good husband
if I had cared about him. I never cared about anybody but you. It
wasn't Westerfield who tempted me to say Yes."

"That's a lie."

"No, indeed it isn't."

"Then why did you marry him?"

"When I married him, Jemmy, there was a prospect--oh, how could I
resist it? Think of being one of the Le Basques! Held in honor,
to the end of my life, by that noble family, whether my husband
lived or died!"

To the barman's ears, this sounded like sheer nonsense. His
experience in the public-house suggested an explanation. "I say,
my girl, have you been drinking?"

Mrs. Westerfield's first impulse led her to rise and point
indignantly to the door. He had only to look at her--and she sat
down again a tamed woman. "You don't understand how the chance
tempted me," she answered, gently.

"What chance do you mean?"

"The chance, dear, of being a lord's mother."

He was still puzzled, but he lowered his tone. The true-born
Briton bowed by instinct before the woman who had jilted him,
when she presented herself in the character of a lord's mother.
"How do you make that out, Maria?" he asked politely.

She drew her chair nearer to him, when he called her by her
Christian name for the first time.

"When Westerfield was courting me," she said, "his brother (my
lord) was a bachelor. A lady--if one can call such a creature a
lady!--was living under his protection. He told Westerfield he
was very fond of her, and he hated the idea of getting married.
'If your wife's first child turns out to be a son,' he said,
'there is an heir to the title and estates, and I may go on as I
am now.' We were married a month afterward--and when my first
child was born it was a girl. I leave you to judge what the
disappointment was! My lord (persuaded, as I suspect, by the
woman I mentioned just now) ran the risk of waiting another year,
and a year afterward, rather than be married. Through all that
time, I had no other child or prospect of a child. His lordship
was fairly driven into taking a wife. Ah, how I hate her! _Their_
first child was a boy--a big, bouncing, healthy brute of a boy!
And six months afterward, my poor little fellow was born. Only
think of it! And tell me, Jemmy, don't I deserve to be a happy
woman, after suffering such a dreadful disappointment as that? Is
it true that you're going back to America?"

"Quite true."

"Take me back with you."

"With a couple of children?"

"No. Only with one. I can dispose of the other in England. Wait a
little before you say No. Do you want money?"

"You couldn't help me, if I did."

"Marry me, and I can help you to a fortune."

He eyed her attentively and saw that she was in earnest. "What do
you call a fortune?" he asked.

"Five thousand pounds," she answered.

His eyes opened; his mouth opened; he scratched his head. Even
his impenetrable nature proved to be capable of receiving a
shock. Five thousand pounds! He asked faintly for "a drop of
brandy."

She had a bottle of brandy ready for him.

"You look quite overcome," she said.

He was too deeply interested in the restorative influence of the
brandy to take any notice of this remark. When he had recovered
himself he was not disposed to believe in the five thousand
pounds.

"Where's the proof of it?" he said, sternly.

She produced her husband's letter. "Did you read the Trial of
Westerfield for casting away his ship?" she asked.

"I heard of it."

"Will you look at this letter?"

"Is it long?"

"Yes."

"Then suppose you read it to me."

He listened with the closest attention while she read. The
question of stealing the diamonds (if they could only be found)
did not trouble either of them. It was a settled question, by
tacit consent on both sides. But the value in money of the
precious stones suggested a doubt that still weighed on his mind.

"How do you know they're worth five thousand pounds?" he
inquired.

"You dear old stupid! Doesn't Westerfield himself say so in his
letter?"

"Read that bit again."

She read it again: "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."

Satisfied so far, he wanted to look at the cipher next. She
handed it to him with a stipulation: "Yours, Jemmy, on the day
when you marry me."

He put the slip of paper into his pocket. "Now I've got it," he
said, "suppose I keep it?"

A woman who has been barmaid at a public-house is a woman not
easily found at the end of her resources.

"In that case," she curtly remarked, "I should first call in the
police, and then telegraph to my husband's employers in
Liverpool."

He handed the cipher back. "I was joking," he said.

"So was I," she answered.

They looked at each other. They were made for each other--and
they both felt it. At the same time, James kept his own interests
steadily in view. He stated the obvious objection to the cipher.
Experts had already tried to interpret the signs, and had failed.

"Quite true," she added, "but other people may succeed."

"How are you to find them?"

"Leave me to try. Will you give me a fortnight from to-day?"

"All right. Anything else?"

"One thing more. Get the marriage license at once."

"Why?"

"To show that you are in earnest."

He burst out laughing. "It mightn't be much amiss," he said, "if
I took you back with me to America; you're the sort of woman we
want in our new saloon. I'll get the license. Good-night."

As he rose to go, there was a soft knock at the door. A little
girl, in a shabby frock, ventured to show herself in the room.

"What do you want here?" her mother asked sharply.

Syd held out a small thin hand, with a letter in it, which
represented her only excuse. Mrs. Westerfield read the letter,
and crumpled it up in her pocket. "One of your secrets?" James
asked. "Anything about the diamonds, for instance?"

"Wait till you are my husband," she said, "and then you may be as
inquisitive as you please." Her amiable sweetheart's guess had
actually hit the mark. During the year that had passed, she too
had tried her luck among the Experts, and had failed. Having
recently heard of a foreign interpreter of ciphers, she had
written to ask his terms. The reply (just received) not only
estimated his services at an extravagantly high rate, but asked
cautious questions which it was not convenient to answer. Another
attempt had been made to discover the mystery of the cipher, and
made in vain.

James Bellbridge had his moments of good-humor, and was on those
rare occasions easily amused. He eyed the child with
condescending curiosity. "Looks half starved," he said--as if he
were considering the case of a stray cat. "Hollo, there! Buy a
bit of bread." He tossed a penny to Syd as she left the room; and
took the opportunity of binding his bargain with Syd's mother.
"Mind! if I take you to New York, I'm not going to be burdened
with both your children. Is that girl the one you leave behind
you?"

Mrs. Westerfield smiled sweetly, and answered: "Yes, dear."

7.--The Cipher.

An advertisement in the newspapers, addressed to persons skilled
in the interpretation of ciphers, now represented Mrs.
Westerfield's only chance of discovering where the diamonds were
hidden. The first answer that she received made some amends for
previous disappointment. It offered references to gentlemen,
whose names were in themselves a sufficient guarantee. She
verified the references nevertheless, and paid a visit to her
correspondent on the same day.

His personal appearance was not in his favor--he was old and
dirty, infirm and poor. His mean room was littered with shabby
books. None of the ordinary courtesies of life seemed to be known
to him; he neither wished Mrs. Westerfield good-morning nor asked
her to take a seat. When she attempted to enter into explanations
relating to her errand, he rudely interrupted her.

"Show me your cipher," he said; "I don't promise to study it
unless I find it worth my while."

Mrs. Westerfield was alarmed.

"Do you mean that you want a large sum of money?" she asked.

"I mean that I don't waste my time on easy ciphers invented by
fools."

She laid the slip of paper on his desk.

"Waste your time on _that_," she said satirically, "and see how
you like it!"

He examined it--first with his bleared red-rimmed eyes; then with
a magnifying-glass. The only expression of opinion that escaped
him was indicated by his actions. He shut up his book, and
gloated over the signs and characters before him. On a sudden he
looked at Mrs. Westerfield. "How did you come by this?" he asked.

"That's no business of yours."

"In other words, you have reasons of your own for not answering
my question?"

"Yes."

Drawing his own inferences from that reply, he showed his three
last-left yellow teeth in a horrid grin. "I understand!" he said,
speaking to himself. He looked at the cipher once more, and put
another question: "Have you got a copy of this?"

It had not occurred to her to take a copy. He rose and pointed to
his empty chair. His opinion of the cipher was, to all
appearance, forced to express itself by the discovery that there
was no copy.

"Do you know what might happen?" he asked. "The only cipher that
has puzzled me for the last ten years might be lost--or
stolen--or burned if there was a fire in the house. You deserve
to be punished for your carelessness. Make the copy yourself."

This desirable suggestion (uncivilly as it was expressed) had its
effect upon Mrs. Westerfield. Her marriage depended on that
precious slip of paper. She was confirmed in her opinion that
this very disagreeable man might nevertheless be a man to be
trusted.

"Shall you be long in finding out what it means?" she asked when
her task was completed.

He carefully compared the copy with the original--and then he
replied:

"Days may pass before I can find the clew; I won't attempt it
unless you give me a week."

She pleaded for a shorter interval. He coolly handed back her
papers; the original and the copy.

"Try somebody else," he suggested--and opened his book again.
Mrs. Westerfield yielded with the worst possible grace. In
granting him the week of delay, she approached the subject of his
fee for the second time. "How much will it cost me?" she
inquired.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.