Читать книгу The Millbank Case: A Maine Mystery of To-day - George Dyre Eldridge - Страница 4

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IN addition to the ill-fated lawyer, there were but three people in the Parlin household—the widow; a general house girl, Mary Mullin; and the hired man, Jonathan Oldbeg, a nephew of the Mullin woman. Oldbeg was about thirty, and his aunt forty. The widow’s room was in the northwest corner of the second floor, while that of the Mullin woman was over the kitchen. The hired man slept over the woodshed. All the windows of the three rooms gave to the north, excepting two in Mrs. Parlin’s room, which opened to the west, overlooking the orchard and the river.

Mrs. Parlin was a tall, striking woman who carried her head, crowned with waves of white hair, with an air that some named queenly, and others by that terrible New England word “conceited.” The death of her husband had been a terrible blow to her soaring ambitions; but this she had outlived, at least to outward seeming. Childless, as well as husbandless, the dormant maternal instinct, which is a part of every true woman, had stirred to life under the care lavished upon her by Wing, whose years were sufficiently less than her own to give a natural tone to the pseudo relation of mother and son. Nevertheless, there had been something of the maternal in her relationship to the judge—of that phase of the maternal which gives to natural weakness courage for defence. It was not in personal finance alone that the judge was a grown-up boy. The sense of fear was so little developed as to amount scarce to caution. Scrupulous in duty, he gave no thought to the enemies or enmities he created, while she saw in these not alone threats to his professional career, but as well danger of a personal nature. Even she, standing guard as she did, had not been able to save him from enemies who defeated his noble ambition and would, as she believed, as readily have destroyed him. As the intensity of her grief softened with time, the solicitude with which she had followed her husband’s career, was transferred to Wing, but with less of the factor of self than it possessed of old, with the result that she grew more lovable and companionable, and gained a friendly interest from the village which had not been hers during the judge’s lifetime.

To this recovered peace of mind the tragic death of Wing came as a crushing blow, the full weight of which few realised until the broken, haggard woman was seen of the public for the first time at the inquest. Years seemed to have left their impress upon her, and there were many who noted that the immediate physical effect was as much more marked than that following the judge’s death, as Wing’s death had been the more tragic. Her husband’s death left to her the responsibility of protecting his name, in co-operation with his partner and friend. Wing’s death snatched away the last prop and stay of her years. Husbandless and childless, to her life had no further meaning, and while the community was whispering that she was again rich—for it was known that she was the principal legatee of the dead lawyer’s will—she was looking down the years with a dread that made hope impossible.

Her testimony was of the briefest. She had said “good-night” to Wing at half-past nine. She had gone to the library for that purpose, as was her custom evenings when he did not sit with her in her own sitting room till her early bedtime.

“Was it his custom to spend the evening in your sitting room or the library?” the coroner asked.

“Two or three evenings a week he spent in my sitting room. The other evenings in the library, when he was at home.”

“Was he away much, evenings?”

“Only when he was at court in Augusta or Portland. When he had cases at Norridgewock he always drove home at night.”

“At what time did you have supper?”

“At six.”

“On the night of the murder?”

The witness nodded, too much affected to speak her answer.

“Who was present at supper?”

“Theodore and myself.”

“Mary Mullin and Oldbeg did not eat with you?”

This was a sore spot in Millbank’s estimate of the widow Parlin. The town still held it a Christian duty for “help” to eat at the same table with their employers. Every departure from this primitive rule was occasion for heart-burnings and recriminations.

“They ate by themselves in the kitchen.”

There was a slight raising of the head, a shadow, as it were, of the old self-assertive pride, which in other days would have made itself manifest in answering this question. So deep was Millbank in the tragedy that the audience almost lost the weight of the heinous fact confessed in this answer.

“Did you go directly to your sitting room after supper?”

“No, we went out into the front yard, to look at the flower-beds, and then crossed the road to the orchard and walked through that to the river-bank.”

“From there you returned to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go on your return?”

“To my sitting room. He lighted my lamp and then excused himself, because of some work he had to do.”

“When did you see him again?”

“At half-past nine, when I went to bid him good-night.”

“Are you certain of the time?”

“Yes; for I stopped to wind the clock as I went through the hall, and noticed that it was exactly half-past nine.”

“There are two doors to the library, are there not—one from the main hall and one from the side?”

“Yes.”

“By which one did you enter the library?”

“By the one from the side hall.”

“Which is near the side door of the house?”

Again she had to nod assent. This was the door through which Wing had passed to his death.

“Did you knock at the door before entering?”

“Always.”

Again that slight suggestive raising of the head.

“Did he open the door for you?”

“Yes. He knew my knock, and always came to open the door.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar about him or the room?”

“I did not.”

“Was there anything to indicate whether he was writing or reading when you knocked?”

“He had a book in his left hand and the light was on a small table by his reading chair.”

“This reading chair and table, where were they in the room?”

“Before the fireplace, about the centre of the north side.”

“Was there a fire in the fireplace?”

“Yes; there were a few wood coals.”

“Was it a cold night?”

“No; but he was very fond of a wood fire and when the evening was not too warm had one, even if he had to have a window open.”

“Was the window open that night?”

“Yes; the one nearest the River Road, overlooking the driveway.”

“That was the nearest window to the desk?”

“The nearest of the south windows. The desk stood between the two west windows.”

“Did you notice whether the shades were drawn?”

“They were drawn to the west windows, but were raised to all four of the south windows.”

“Were you long in the room?”

“Only long enough to say ‘good-night’ and ask him not to read too late.”

“What did he say to this?”

“Laughed, as he always did, when I spoke of his sitting up late, and,” in a voice that was almost a sob; “said, ‘You know, mother, I can’t get over my bad habits, but really to-night I’m only going to read a chapter or two more, for I must write a letter and then go to bed. I’ve got a busy day to-morrow.’”

“Was that all he said?”

“Excepting ‘good-night.’”

“Do you recall anything in his manner, tone, or words that indicated trouble or apprehension of any kind?”

“Nothing. He was, as always, cheerful and, seemingly, happy, and laughed quite carelessly when he spoke of his bad habit.”

“When did you next see him?”

The question came with a suddenness that startled every one who heard it, including the witness. She grew white and for a moment swayed as if she would fall. Dr. Rogers, her physician, stepped towards her, but before he could reach her side, she recovered by what seemed a supreme effort of the will, and, raising her head, answered:

“In the morning, a little after six, lying dead on the threshold of the south door.”

Then her head dropped on the table in front of her, and her face was hidden from the gaze of her curious neighbours, but not a sob was heard. She had spent her tears long before.

At an adjourned session, she testified that she had heard no unusual noise during the night. She was a sound sleeper and did not wake easily. She had fallen asleep soon after hearing the clock strike ten. She did not recall awaking until aroused by the noise made by Mary Mullin knocking at her door, soon after six o’clock, to tell her of the discovery of the murder.

“Do you believe that a pistol shot could have been fired at your side door and you not hear it?” the coroner asked, with that sudden sharpness he had at times.

“I am compelled to believe that it did occur;” and there was to more than one onlooker an air of defiance in the answer.

“In advance of this, would you believe it possible?” he demanded.

She looked at him as if weighing the question and its purpose, and then said deliberately:

“No.”

The answer manifestly accorded with the sense of the spectators, among whom there were sundry exchanges of glances not all friendly to the witness. But the coroner was speaking again:

“Mrs. Parlin, what do you know of the parentage of the late Theodore Wing?”

Every head was bent towards the witness to catch the answer to what the veriest dullard suspected was the most important question thus far asked. The witness grew pale—paler than she had been at any time, and there came into her bearing a touch of defiance rather felt than seen. She was apparently arming herself against coroner and spectators.

“He was the son of Judge Parlin.”

If she had aimed at sensation, she could not have hoped for greater success. A murmur of surprise ran about the room, and the confusion rose to a height that for a time defied the efforts of the coroner to preserve order. Curiosity to hear further questions and answers came to his aid, and silence was restored.

“By a former marriage?”

“No. He was born out of wedlock.”

“When did you first learn of this?”

“On the eleventh of this month.”

“The day succeeding the murder?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn of it?”

“From a paper in the judge’s handwriting, found in Theodore’s desk, and enclosed in an envelope addressed ‘Mrs. Amelia Parlin; Mr. Theodore Wing; to be opened and read by the survivor, in event of the death of either, and until such death to remain unopened.’”

“Was this inscription also in the handwriting of your late husband?”

Now many noted that she had said “Judge Parlin,” and not “my late husband,” as if she would remind them from the start of the public’s share in his acts, rather than of her own.

“It was.”

“Please produce that paper.”

The witness drew forth a large square envelope and handed it to the coroner, who said to the jury:

“I regret that I am compelled to read to you a paper which was evidently intended for one person’s reading only, and that Mrs. Parlin or Mr. Wing, according as the one or the other should be the longest-lived. The circumstances of the death which placed this in the hands of the other for perusal, leaves no alternative. Before reading, let me say, I was a townsman of Judge Parlin: I had the honour to know him intimately, and notwithstanding what I am about to read you, I still hold it an honour. He was an able lawyer, an upright judge, a good citizen, and, I may add, a noble man. If he sinned, who of us is there that is without sin? If there be such, let him cast the first stone. I am not entitled to do so.”

The widow sat with head held high, as if there had come to her again the old strength that so many felt was gone forever. When her husband was in question, her courage had no limit. She flinched from no eye that was turned towards her, but there was that in her own which seemed to resent even the kindly words of the coroner, as if in protest that they implied wrong in her husband’s past which she would not for one instant admit. It was not for them to accuse, still less to excuse. What he had done was a thing that concerned him and his God alone, and her look said more plainly than words, “neither do I accuse him!” The instinct of defence covered her as a shield.

Meantime the coroner read:

“‘There were three persons who had the right to know what I am about to write. One died many years ago. Until another dies, these words are not to be read. In the course of nature, it is probable that the reading will fall to Theodore, not to my wife. If so, I believe that when Theodore reads them, I will already have been reunited to my wife and will have told her all that I write here, and so told it that she will feel my sincerity more clearly than I can make it felt by any written words.

“‘Although born and raised in Millbank, I read law in the office of Judge Murdock in Bangor. My father had a great admiration for the judge and, dying early, before he had seen me admitted to the bar, asked his friend to take me into his office. If I have attained anything of note in my profession, I owe it largely to the fidelity with which Judge Murdock discharged his trust.

“‘While in his office and shortly before I returned to Millbank, I became involved with a young woman of Bangor, who became by me the mother of the man now known as Theodore Wing—he will find his name legally established by action of the Legislature in 1841. Unfortunately, I can say little that is good of her; I will say nothing otherwise, if I can avoid it. I shirk no part of the responsibility for the wrong done. God alone knows that if she failed in true womanhood, then or after, it was not I who was wholly to blame. Thus much I can say, she was and is a woman of brilliant mind and shrewd resources, which have carried her far socially.

“‘Fortunately I did not lack money, and so was able to provide comfortably for the woman and her child. As a matter of justice, I offered marriage, but she made it a condition that her child should be placed in some institution, urging that it would otherwise always be a stigma upon us. To this I would not consent, and her election to forego the vindication of marriage put me on my guard, for I could not believe that a woman of her temperament would deliberately elect to go through life encumbered with an unfathered child. The event proved me right, for within three months she had placed the infant in an institution for orphans, and returned to Bangor with a plausible tale accounting for her absence.

“‘She, of course, counted safely on my silence, but I did not hesitate to make it a condition that I should take possession of the child for whom I provided, rearing him in such a way that he has taken a place in the world equal to that of his parents, and as untrammelled by his unsuspected birth as it is possible for one to be. My marriage has never been blessed with children, and thus to him and my wife of thirty years, the two on earth whose claim upon me is most sacred, I am able to leave all that I have accumulated.

“‘He has been to me all that a son could be. Let this narrative be to him, if he ever reads it, an explanation of anything in which I have been less than a father to him.

“‘I see no necessity for continuing this narrative further, save that it may be to my son a relief to know something more of his mother, and to my wife a joy to know that my wrong did not bring a woman to misery and worldly ruin. Within a year of her desertion of my son, I attended her wedding to a man of equal social rank, who has since risen to wealth and political power. She has been a notable aid to him, and her name is well-nigh as often pronounced in connection with his fortunes as is his own. She is the mother of children who have taken good social positions, and some of whom seem to have inherited their mother’s brilliance of mind and unflinching purpose and their father’s ability in money and power getting. To say more than this, even to the two dear ones, of whom one alone is to read these lines, would be an injustice to the woman herself and to her children. To her influence, exerted against me, I attribute my failure to secure the chief justiceship. As great as was the disappointment, I can write the fact to-day without bitterness toward her and without purpose to accuse her of injustice. If by meeting the penalty of my sin, I can avert it from others, I am content.’”

Unless one knew the unbending spirit of the man in matters of right and wrong, he must fail to understand the keenness of feeling covered by the apparently cold, formal statement of fact to which Judge Parlin had confined his written words. To the witness on the witness rack, however, those words were as if the living man spoke again and laid bare a heart torn with the humiliation of self-condemnation, more terrible to him than the judgment of any human tribunal. Realising the bitterness of spirit in which he had spoken, she was stirred anew by that long-dead instinct of protection, which had made her weakness a shield in the past to his strength, and held high her head, too proud of her dead to allow any one to find in her the faintest blame for this strong spirit whose words she, and she alone, read to their last meaning.

The hush that followed the reading was that strong suspension of every function which betokens deep emotion. Before the mass had recovered, the coroner’s voice broke harshly upon them:

“When did you first know of the existence of this paper?”

“The paper itself on the eleventh. I saw the envelope and its address by accident a week or ten days before.”

“Can you fix the exact date?”

“I cannot. I saw it by accident, as I have said, and I assumed it related to something Judge Parlin had desired done in the event named on the envelope. I asked no questions regarding it.”

“Will you state on oath that you knew nothing of the contents of this paper until after the death of Mr. Theodore Wing?”

The white head went up, and there was a sting of rebuke in the tone in which the answer came:

“I was under oath when I gave my testimony. I stated then that I first learned of this paper and its contents on May eleventh. I can add nothing to that.”

“Did you ever suspect the relationship of your husband to Mr. Wing prior to the eleventh of this month, when you saw this paper?”

“I did not.”

“Would a knowledge of that relationship, if you had known it while he was living, have changed in any way your feeling towards Mr. Wing?”

The witness paused as if she would question her own heart before answering, and the coroner waited patiently, with apparent understanding of the need. A hush fell on the room, like that which had followed the reading of the remarkable paper. Then Mrs. Parlin looked directly at the coroner and answered distinctly and without a tremor in her voice:

“I think it would.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “I am sorry if I have in any way disturbed you unnecessarily in this examination. I know that you believe I have aimed simply at my duty.”