Book: The Evil Genius

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"I'll tell you when I've done."

"That won't do! I must know the amount first."

He handed her back her papers for the second time. Mrs.
Westerfield's experience of poverty had never been the experience
of such independence as this. In sheer bewilderment, she yielded
again. He took back the original cipher, and locked it up in his
desk. "Call here this day week," he said--and returned to his
book.

"You are not very polite," she told him, on leaving the room.

"At any rate," he answered, "I don't interrupt people when they
are reading."

The week passed.

Repeating her visit, Mrs. Westerfield found him still seated at
his desk, still surrounded by his books, still careless of the
polite attentions that he owed to a lady.

"Well?" she asked, "have you earned your money?"

"I have found the clew."

"What is it?" she burst out. "Tell me the substance. I can't wait
to read."

He went on impenetrably with what he had to say. "But there are
some minor combinations, which I have still to discover to my own
satisfaction. I want a few days more."

She positively refused to comply with this request. "Write down
the substance of it," she repeated, "and tell me what I owe you."

He handed her back her cipher for the third time.

The woman who could have kept her temper, under such provocation
as this, may be found when the mathematician is found who can
square the circle, or the inventor who can discover perpetual
motion. With a furious look, Mrs. Westerfield expressed her
opinion of the philosopher in two words: "You brute!" She failed
to produce the slightest impression on him.

"My work," he proceeded, "must be well done or not done at all.
This is Saturday, eleventh of the month. We will say the evening
of Wednesday next."

Mrs. Westerfield sufficiently controlled herself to be able to
review her engagements for the coming week. On Thursday, the
delay exacted by the marriage license would expire, and the
wedding might take place. On Friday, the express train conveyed
passengers to Liverpool, to be in time for the departure of the
steamer for New York on Saturday morning. Having made these
calculations, she asked, with sulky submission, if she was
expected to call again on the Wednesday evening.

"No. Leave me your name and address. I will send you the cipher,
interpreted, at eight o'clock."

Mrs. Westerfield laid one of her visiting cards on his desk, and
left him.

8.--The Diamonds.

The new week was essentially a week of events.

On the Monday morning, Mrs. Westerfield and her faithful James
had their first quarrel. She took the liberty of reminding him
that it was time to give notice of the marriage at the church,
and to secure berths in the steamer for herself and her son.
Instead of answering one way or another, James asked how the
Expert was getting on.

"Has your old man found out where the diamonds are?"

"Not yet."

"Then we'll wait till he does."

"Do you believe my word?" Mrs. Westerfield asked curtly.

James Bellbridge answered, with Roman brevity, "No."

This was an insult; Mrs. Westerfield expressed her sense of it.
She rose, and pointed to the door. "Go back to America, as soon
as you please," she said; "and find the money you want--if you
can."

As a proof that she was in earnest she took her copy of the
cipher out of the bosom of her dress, and threw it into the fire.
"The original is safe in my old man's keeping," she added. "Leave
the room."

James rose with suspicious docility, and walked out, having his
own private ends in view.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Westerfield's old man was interrupted
over his work by a person of bulky and blackguard appearance,
whom he had never seen before.

The stranger introduced himself as a gentleman who was engaged to
marry Mrs. Westerfield: he requested (not at all politely) to be
permitted to look at the cipher. He was asked if he had brought a
written order to that effect, signed by the lady herself. Mr.
Bellbridge, resting his fists on the writing-table, answered that
he had come to look at the cipher on his own sole responsibility,
and that he insisted on seeing it immediately. "Allow me to show
you something else first," was the reply he received to this
assertion of his will and pleasure. "Do you know a loaded pistol,
sir, when you see it?" The barrel of the pistol approached within
three inches of the barman's big head as he leaned over the
writing-table. For once in his life he was taken by surprise. It
had never occurred to him that a professed interpreter of ciphers
might sometimes be trusted with secrets which placed him in a
position of danger, and might therefore have wisely taken
measures to protect himself. No power of persuasion is comparable
to the power possessed by a loaded pistol. James left the room;
and expressed his sentiments in language which has not yet found
its way into any English Dictionary.

But he had two merits, when his temper was in a state of repose.
He knew when he was beaten; and he thoroughly appreciated the
value of the diamonds. When Mrs. Westerfield saw him again, on
the next day, he appeared with undeniable claims on her mercy.
Notice of the marriage had been received at the church; and a
cabin had been secured for her on board the steamer.

Her prospects being thus settled, to her own satisfaction, Mrs.
Westerfield was at liberty to make her arrangements for the
desertion of poor little Syd.

The person on whose assistance she could rely was an unmarried
elder sister, distinguished as proprietor of a cheap girls'
school in one of the suburbs of London. This lady--known to local
fame as Miss Wigger--had already proposed to take Syd into
training as a pupil teacher. "I'll force the child on," Miss
Wigger promised, "till she can earn her board and lodging by
taking my lowest class. When she gets older she will replace my
regular governess, and I shall save the salary."

With this proposal waiting for a reply, Mrs. Westerfield had only
to inform her sister that it was accepted. "Come here," she
wrote, "on Friday next, at any time before two o'clock, and Syd
shall be ready for you. P.S.--I am to be married again on
Thursday, and start for America with my husband and my boy by
next Saturday's steamer."

The letter was posted; and the mother's anxious mind was, to use
her own phrase, relieved of another worry.

As the hour of eight drew near on Wednesday evening, Mrs.
Westerfield's anxiety forced her to find relief in action of some
kind. She opened the door of her sitting-room and listened on the
stairs. It still wanted for a few minutes to eight o'clock, when
there was a ring at the house-bell. She ran down to open the
door. The servant happened to be in the hall, and answered the
bell. The next moment, the door was suddenly closed again.

"Anybody there?" Mrs. Westerfield asked.

"No, ma'am."

This seemed strange. Had the old wretch deceived her, after all?
"Look in the letter-box," she called out. The servant obeyed, and
found a letter. Mrs. Westerfield tore it open, standing on the
stairs. It contained half a sheet of common note-paper. The
interpretation of the cipher was written on it in these words:

"Remember Number 12, Purbeck Road, St. John's Wood. Go to the
summer-house in the back garden. Count to the fourth plank in the
floor, reckoning from the side wall on the right as you enter the
summer-house. Prize up the plank. Look under the mould and
rubbish. Find the diamonds."

Not a word of explanation accompanied these lines. Neither had
the original cipher been returned. The strange old man had earned
his money, and had not attended to receive it--had not even sent
word where or how it might be paid! Had he delivered his letter
himself? He (or his messenger) had gone before the house-door
could be opened!

A sudden suspicion of him turned her cold. Had he stolen the
diamonds? She was on the point of sending for a cab, and driving
it to his lodgings, when James came in, eager to know if the
interpretation had arrived.

Keeping her suspicions to herself, she merely informed him that
the interpretation was in her hands. He at once asked to see it.
She refused to show it to him until he had made her his wife.
"Put a chisel in your pocket, when we go to church, to-morrow
morning," was the one hint she gave him. As thoroughly worthy of
each other as ever, the betrothed lovers distrusted each other to
the last.

At eleven o'clock the next morning they were united in the bonds
of wedlock; the landlord and the landlady of the public-house in
which they had both served being the only witnesses present. The
children were not permitted to see the ceremony. On leaving the
church door, the married pair began their honeymoon by driving to
St. John's Wood.

A dirty printed notice, in a broken window, announced that the
House was To Let; and a sour-tempered woman informed them that
they were free to look at the rooms.

The bride was in the best of humors. She set the bridegroom the
example of keeping up appearances by examining the dilapidated
house first. This done, she said sweetly to the person in charge,
"May we look at the garden?"

The woman made a strange answer to this request. "That's
curious," she said.

James interfered for the first time. "What's curious?" he asked
roughly.

"Among all the idle people who have come here, at one time or
another, to see this house." the woman said, "only two have
wanted to look at the garden."

James turned on his heel, and made for the summer-house, leaving
it to his wife to pursue the subject or not as she pleased. She
did pursue the subject.

"I am one of the persons, of course," she said. "Who is the
other?"

"An old man came on Monday."

The bride's pleasant smile vanished.

"What sort of person was he?" she asked.

The sour-tempered woman became sourer than ever.

"Oh, how can I tell! A brute. There!"

"A brute!" The very words which the new Mrs. Bellbridge had
herself used when the Expert had irritated her. With serious
misgivings, she, too, turned her steps in the direction of the
garden.

James had already followed her instructions and used his chisel.
The plank lay loose on the floor. With both his big hands he
rapidly cleared away the mould and the rubbish. In a few minutes
the hiding-place was laid bare.

They looked into it. They looked at each other. There was the
empty hole, telling its own story. The diamonds were gone.


9.--The Mother.


Mrs. Bellbridge eyed her husband, prepared for a furious outbreak
of rage. He stood silent, staring stupidly straight before him.
The shock that had fallen on his dull brain had stunned it. For
the time, he was a big idiot--speechless, harmless, helpless.

She put back the rubbish, and replaced the plank, and picked up
the chisel. "Come, James," she said; "pull yourself together." It
was useless to speak to him. She took his arm and led him out to
the cab that was waiting at the door.

The driver, helping him to get in, noticed a piece of paper lying
on the front seat. Advertisements, seeking publicity under all
possible circumstances, are occasionally sent flying into the
open windows of vehicles. The driver was about to throw the paper
away, when Mrs. Bellbridge (seeing it on the other side) took it
out of his hand. "It isn't print," she said; "it's writing." A
closer examination showed that the writing was addressed to
herself. Her correspondent must have followed her to the church,
as well as to the house in St. John's Wood. He distinguished her
by the name which she had changed that morning, under the
sanction of the clergy and the law.

This was what she read: "Don't trouble yourself, madam, about the
diamonds. You have made a mistake--you have employed the wrong
man."

Those words--and no more. Enough, surely, to justify the
conclusion that he had stolen the diamonds. Was it worth while to
drive to his lodgings? They tried the experiment. The Expert had
gone away on business--nobody knew where.

The newspaper came as usual on Friday morning. To Mrs.
Bellbridge's amazement it set the question of the theft at rest,
on the highest authority. An article appeared, in a conspicuous
position, thus expressed:

"Another of the many proofs that truth is stranger than fiction
has just occurred at Liverpool. A highly respected firm of
shipwreckers in that city received a strange letter at the
beginning of the present week. Premising that he had some
remarkable circumstances to communicate, the writer of the letter
entered abruptly on the narrative which follows: A friend of
his--connected with literature--had, it appeared, noticed a
lady's visiting card on his desk, and had been reminded by it (in
what way it was not necessary to explain) of a criminal case
which had excited considerable public interest at the time; viz.,
the trial of Captain Westerfield for willfully casting away a
ship under his command. Never having heard of the trial, the
writer, at his friend's suggestion, consulted a file of
newspapers--discovered the report--and became aware, for the
first time, that a collection of Brazilian diamonds, consigned to
the Liverpool firm, was missing from the wrecked vessel when she
had been boarded by the salvage party, and had not been found
since. Events, which it was impossible for him to mention (seeing
that doing so would involve a breach of confidence placed in him
in his professional capacity), had revealed to his knowledge a
hiding-place in which these same diamonds, in all probability,
were concealed. This circumstance had left him no alternative, as
an honest man, but to be beforehand with the persons, who (as he
believed) contemplated stealing the precious stones. He had,
accordingly, taken them under his protection, until they were
identified and claimed by the rightful owners. In now appealing
to these gentlemen, he stipulated that the claim should be set
forth in writing, addressed to him under initials at a
post-office in London. If the lost property was identified to his
satisfaction, he would meet--at a specified place and on a
certain day and hour--a person accredited by the firm and would
personally restore the diamonds, without claiming (or consenting
to receive) a reward. The conditions being complied with, this
remarkable interview took place; the writer of the letter,
described as an infirm old man very poorly dressed, fulfilled his
engagement, took his receipt, and walked away without even
waiting to be thanked. It is only an act of justice to add that
the diamonds were afterward counted, and not one of them was
missing."

Miserable, deservedly-miserable married pair. The stolen fortune,
on which they had counted, had slipped through their fingers. The
berths in the steamer for New York had been taken and paid for.
James had married a woman with nothing besides herself to bestow
on him, except an incumbrance in the shape of a boy.

Late on the fatal wedding-day his first idea, when he was himself
again after the discovery in the summer-house, was to get back
his passage-money, to abandon his wife and his stepson, and to
escape to America in a French steamer. He went to the office of
the English company, and offered the places which he had taken
for sale. The season of the year was against him; the
passenger-traffic to America was at its lowest ebb, and profits
depended upon freights alone.

If he still contemplated deserting his wife, he must also submit
to sacrifice his money. The other alternative was (as he
expressed it himself) to "have his pennyworth for his penny, and
to turn his family to good account in New York." He had not quite
decided what to do when he got home again on the evening of his
marriage.

At that critical moment in her life the bride was equal to the
demand on her resources.

If she was foolish enough to allow James to act on his natural
impulses, there were probably two prospects before her. In one
state of his temper, he might knock her down. In another state of
his temper, he might leave her behind him. Her only hope of
protecting herself, in either case, was to tame the bridegroom.
In his absence, she wisely armed herself with the most
irresistible fascinations of her sex. Never yet had he seen her
dressed as she was dressed when he came home. Never yet had her
magnificent eyes looked at him as they looked now. Emotions for
which he was not prepared overcame this much injured man; he
stared at the bride in helpless surprise. That inestimable moment
of weakness was all Mrs. Bellbridge asked for. Bewildered by his
own transformation, James found himself reading the newspaper the
next morning sentimentally, with his arm round his wife's waist.



By a refinement of cruelty, not one word had been said to prepare
little Syd for the dreary change that was now close at hand in
her young life. The poor child had seen the preparations for
departure, and had tried to imitate her mother in packing up. She
had collected her few morsels of darned and ragged clothing, and
had gone upstairs to put them into one of the dilapidated old
trunks in the garret play ground, when the servant was sent to
bring her back to the sitting-room. There, enthroned in an
easy-chair, sat a strange lady; and there, hiding behind the
chair in undisguised dislike of the visitor, was her little
brother Roderick. Syd looked timidly at her mother; and her
mother said:

"Here is your aunt."

The personal appearance of Miss Wigger might have suggested a
modest distrust of his own abilities to Lavater, when that
self-sufficient man wrote his famous work on Physiognomy.
Whatever betrayal of her inner self her face might have
presented, in the distant time when she was young, was now
completely overlaid by a surface of a flabby fat which, assisted
by green spectacles, kept the virtues (or vices) of this woman's
nature a profound secret until she opened her lips. When she used
her voice, she let out the truth. Nobody could hear her speak,
and doubt for a moment that she was an inveterately ill-natured
woman.

"Make your curtsey, child!" said Miss Wigger. Nature had so toned
her voice as to make it worthy of the terrors of her face. But
for her petticoats, it would have been certainly taken for the
voice of a man.

The child obeyed, trembling.

"You are to go away with me," the school-mistress proceeded, "and
to be taught to make yourself useful under my roof."

Syd seemed to be incapable of understanding the fate that was in
store for her. She sheltered herself behind her merciless mother.
"I'm going away with you, mamma," she said--"with you and Rick."

Her mother took her by the shoulders, and pushed her across the
room to her aunt.

The child looked at the formidable female creature with the man's
voice and the green spectacles.

"You belong to me," said Miss Wigger, by way of encouragement,
"and I have come to take you away." At those dreadful words,
terror shook little Syd from head to foot. She fell on her knees
with a cry of misery that might have melted the heart of a
savage. "Oh, mamma, mamma, don't leave me behind! What have I
done to deserve it? Oh, pray, pray, pray have some pity on me!"

Her mother was as selfish and as cruel a woman as ever lived. But
even her hard heart felt faintly the influence of the most
intimate and most sacred of all human relationships. Her florid
cheeks turned pale. She hesitated.

Miss Wigger marked (through her own green medium) that moment of
maternal indecision--and saw that it was time to assert her
experience as an instructress of youth.

"Leave it to me," she said to her sister. "You never did know,
and you never will know, how to manage children."

She advanced. The child threw herself shrieking on the floor.
Miss Wigger's long arms caught her up--held her--shook her. "Be
quiet, you imp!" It was needless to tell her to be quiet. Syd's
little curly head sank on the schoolmistress's shoulder. She was
carried into exile without a word or a cry--she had fainted.


10.--The School.

Time's march moves slowly, where weary lives languish in dull
places.

Dating from one unkempt and unacknowledged birthday to another,
Sydney Westerfield had attained the sixth year of her martyrdom
at School. In that long interval no news of her mother, her
brother, or her stepfather had reached England; she had received
no letter, she had not even heard a report. Without friends, and
without prospects, Roderick Westerfield's daughter was, in the
saddest sense of the word, alone in the world.



The hands of the ugly old clock in the school-room were
approaching the time when the studies of the morning would come
to an end. Wearily waiting for their release, the scholars saw an
event happen which was a novelty in their domestic experience.
The maid-of-all-work audaciously put her head in at the door, and
interrupted Miss Wigger conducting the education of the
first-class.

"If you please, miss, there's a gentleman--"

Having uttered these introductory words, she was reduced to
silence by the tremendous voice of her mistress.

"Haven't I forbidden you to come here in school hours? Go away
directly!"

Hardened by a life of drudgery, under conditions of perpetual
scolding, the servant stood her ground, and recovered the use of
her tongue.

"There's a gentleman in the drawing-room," she persisted. Miss
Wigger tried to interrupt her again. "And here's his card!" she
shouted, in a voice that was the louder of the two.

Being a mortal creature, the schoolmistress was accessible to the
promptings of curiosity. She snatched the card out of the girl's
hand.

_Mr. Herbert Linley, Mount Morven, Perthshire._ "I don't know
this person," Miss Wigger declared. "You wretch, have you let a
thief into the house?"

"A gentleman, if ever I see one yet," the servant asserted.

"Hold your tongue! Did he ask for me? Do you hear?"

"You told me to hold my tongue. No; he didn't ask for you."

"Then who did he want to see?"

"It's on his card."

Miss Wigger referred to the card again, and discovered (faintly
traced in pencil) these words: "To see Miss S.W."

The schoolmistress instantly looked at Miss Westerfield. Miss
Westerfield rose from her place at the head of her class.

The pupils, astonished at this daring act, all looked at the
teacher--their natural enemy, appointed to supply them with
undesired information derived from hated books. They saw one of
Mother Nature's favorite daughters; designed to be the darling of
her family, and the conqueror of hearts among men of all tastes
and ages. But Sydney Westerfield had lived for six weary years in
the place of earthly torment, kept by Miss Wigger under the name
of a school. Every budding beauty, except the unassailable beauty
of her eyes and her hair, had been nipped under the frosty
superintendence of her maternal aunt. Her cheeks were hollow, her
delicate lips were pale; her shabby dress lay flat over her
bosom. Observant people, meeting her when she was out walking
with the girls, were struck by her darkly gentle eyes, and by the
patient sadness of her expression. "What a pity!" they said to
each other. "She would be a pretty girl, if she didn't look so
wretched and so thin."

At a loss to understand the audacity of her teacher in rising
before the class was dismissed, Miss Wigger began by asserting
her authority. She did in two words: "Sit down!"

"I wish to explain, ma'am."

"Sit down."

"I beg, Miss Wigger, that you will allow me to explain."

"Sydney Westerfield, you are setting the worst possible example
to your class. I shall see this man myself. _Will_ you sit down?"

Pale already, Sydney turned paler still. She obeyed the word of
command--to the delight of the girls of her class. It was then
within ten minutes of the half hour after twelve--when the pupils
were dismissed to the playground while the cloth was laid for dinner.
What use would the teacher make of that half hour of freedom?

In the meanwhile Miss Wigger had entered her drawing-room. With
the slightest possible inclination of her head, she eyed the
stranger through her green spectacles. Even under that
disadvantage his appearance spoke for itself. The servant's
estimate of him was beyond dispute. Mr. Herbert Linley's good
breeding was even capable of suppressing all outward expression
of the dismay that he felt, on finding himself face to face with
the formidable person who had received him.

"What is your business, if you please?" Miss Wigger began.

Men, animals, and buildings wear out with years, and submit to
their hard lot. Time only meets with flat contradiction when he
ventures to tell a woman that she is growing old. Herbert Linley
had rashly anticipated that the "young lady," whom it was the
object of his visit to see, would prove to be young in the
literal sense of the word. When he and Miss Wigger stood face to
face, if the door had been set open for him, he would have left
the house with the greatest pleasure.

"I have taken the liberty of calling," he said, "in answer to an
advertisement. May I ask"--he paused, and took out a newspaper
from the pocket of his overcoat--"If I have the honor of speaking
to the lady who is mentioned here?"

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