Correspondence of the "London Times."

CHICAGO, April 23, 1904. Now that the after developments of the Clayton case have run their course and reached a finish, I will sum them up. Clayton's romantic escape from a shameful death steeped all this region in an enchantment of wonder and joy-during the proverbial nine days. Then the sobering process followed, and men began to take thought, and to say: "But a man was killed, and Clayton killed him." Others replied: "That is true: we have been overlooking that important detail; we have been led away by excitement."

The feeling soon became general that Clayton ought to be tried again. Measures were taken accordingly, and the proper representations conveyed to Washington; for in America, under the new paragraph added to the Constitution in 1899, second trials are not State affairs, but national, and must be tried by the most august body in the land-the Supreme Court of the United States. The justices were therefore summoned to sit in Chicago. The session was held day before yesterday, and was opened with the usual impressive formalities, the nine judges appearing in their black robes, and the new chief justice (Lemaitre) presiding. In opening the case, the chief justice said:

"It is my opinion that this matter is quite simple. The prisoner at the bar was charged with murdering the man Szczepanik; he was tried for murdering the man Szczepanik; he was fairly tried, and justly condemned and sentenced to death for murdering the man Szczepanik. It turns out that the man Szczepanik was not murdered at all. By the decision of the French courts in the Dreyfus matter, it is established beyond cavil or question that the decisions of courts are permanent and cannot be revised. We are obliged to respect and adopt this precedent. It is upon precedents that the enduring

edifice of jurisprudence is reared. The prisoner at the bar has been fairly and righteously condemned to death for the murder of the man Szczepanik, and, in my opinion, there is but one course to pursue in the matter: he must be hanged."

Mr. Justice Crawford said:

"But, your Excellency, he was pardoned on the scaffold for that."

"The pardon is not valid, and cannot stand, because he was pardoned for killing a man whom he had not killed. A man cannot be pardoned for a crime which he has not committed; it would be an absurdity."

"But, your Excellency, he did kill a man." "That is an extraneous detail; we have nothing to do with it. The court cannot take up this crime until the prisoner has expiated the other one."

Mr. Justice Halleck said:

"If we order his execution, your Excellency, we shall bring about a miscarriage of justice; for the governor will pardon him again."

"He will not have the power. He cannot pardon a man for crime which he has not committed. As I observed before, it would be an absurdity."

After a consultation, Mr. Justice Wadsworth said:

"Several of us have arrived at the conclusion, your Excellency, that it would be an error to hang the prisoner for killing Szczepanik, but only for killing the other man, since it is proven that he did not kill Szczepanik.”

"On the contrary, it is proven that he did kill Szczepanik. By the French precedent, it is plain that we must abide by the finding of the court."

"But Szczepanik is still alive." "So is Dreyfus."

In the end it was found impossible to ignore or get around the French precedent. There could be but one result: Clayton was delivered over to the executioner. It made an immense excitement; the State rose as one man and clamored for Clayton's pardon and retrial. The governor issued the pardon, but the Supreme Court was in duty bound to annul it, and did so, and poor Clayton was hanged yesterday. The city is draped in black, and, indeed, the like may be said of the State. All America is vocal with scorn of "French justice," and of the malignant little soldiers who invented it and inflicted it upon the other Christian lands. M. T.

[T 's a pretty sight," murmured Captain a Minnie; "I declare, I dunno why I want ter spile it cuttin' it down. Let 'em call it slack, I say." He hung his scythe on the fence, smiling in deprecation at an imaginary tribunal. "It ain't neat, that 's a true word, but I dunno when I 've seen anything more cheerful." He gathered a handful of buttercups and grasses, touching each in silent salute. "Come ter think o' it, the river 's 'bout the worst-lookin' thing round here-all witchy waves. None of 'em runnin' the same way, neither. Wonder folks 'low it in front their doors."

His wonted tranquillity restored by this little joke, he turned his eyes toward the Connecticut, flashing like diamonds where the sun smote it. Around him stretched a tangle of grasses and buttercups. A narrow parting, as by a comb, showed the path to the house, a large building hidden among lilacbushes and syringas. The village folks said Captain Minnie would have had a "sightly place, if he 'd only fix it up." To the same critics the owner was as his grounds-potentially praiseworthy, as possessing elements of worth and attractiveness, but actually prevented by neglect and whims.

Captain Minnie was accounted "dreadful queer" by his fellow-townsmen, and was pointed out by them to strangers as one of the sights of the village, a concise biographical sketch being added.

Such a sketch, made on the fair morning when, somewhat after the manner of the valiant King of France, he came out with his scythe, and went in with it again, would have described him as a very tall man of fifty, with dark, sad eyes, a sensitive mouth, and gray hair hanging over his coat-collar. He did not often let you look in his eyes; when you did, it was like a glimpse into some deep, still pool. Somehow your heart quickened its beat and your breath flowed less smoothly for an instant, as if in the presence of a mystery. You do not often see the human soul. He carried himself like a soldier on parade, never relaxing into a comforta1 In THE CENTURY'S college competition of graduates of 1897, this story was deemed worthy of receiving the first prize. EDITOR.

VOL. LVIL-14.

ble slipshodness. This martial bearing stiffened into wooden rigidity at sight of a stranger or a woman; and that is to touch upon the spring whence proceeded half Captain Minnie's queerness. He was the victim. of a shyness so vast and so relentless, it might properly be called a disease. His malady was too powerful to manifest itself in any of the ways common to lesser forms of it, such as stammering, blushing, and breaking down in speech. His shyness turned him into a haughty statue, whose monosyllabic replies chilled the most vivacious seeker after truth in that particular well. Like the pious anchorite of whom Burton writes, the presence of a woman produced in him a "cold palsy." Every movement of his life was craftily planned with reference to the number of women he must face in its performance. If too large a number of the "unquiet sex" were involved, and six made a regiment to him, -the contemplated act was given up unhesitatingly. Although a firm upholder of religion, he was never able to seek its visible temple, for there the women so far outnumbered the men that he felt in physical jeopardy. This "manfearing spirit," as old Parson Howard had pronounced it,-though he should, with strict adherence to the truth, have called it "woman-fearing,"-threatened for a time the one systematic habit of Captain Minnie's day. He went every morning, at exactly ten, to the post-office to get his morning paper. This short trip-down one street and up the next-was heavy with perils; for at the junction of the two roads stood the village hotel, in summer gay with guests, in winter the home of various old maids and widows, who seemed fastened in the front. windows. Captain Minnie had endured all things from that hotel-had foregone his paper for days, had expended sums in hired carriers. Then light dawned. He discovered a safe route. This ran through his long acres to the lower side of the river-basin, then along the shore, where mud, dirty boats, and fish-oil were as a castle moat to all women, through Joey Dibble's back yard, Joey was an old bachelor of evil reputation, - across Aunt Temperance Parmelee's garden, - Aunt

105

Temperance was bedridden, -and into the back of the office. Only once had this route betrayed him. Rushing home one morning, -rushing was the only method of locomotion known to him, apparently, he broke into the midst of a girls' sketching club encamped in his own meadows. They surrounded him; they asked him questions about the country, the river, the village; they begged him to pose for their pictures. Captain Minnie's orchard lay open to every small boy, his garden to any friend, and he had been known to invite stray cows to pasture themselves in his clover, because he pitied their grassless wanderings. But on the morrow following this experience the entrance to his fields bore a huge placard which read: "All trespassers will be punished to the full extent of the law."

Captain Minnie received this shyness as a heritage from his father. Minton Ware had been so afraid of his fellow-mortals that report said that if his mother had not performed the office of an intermediary between him and the woman he married, he would have died a celibate. Their one child was brought up in seclusion, his only companions his mother and father. He never went to school; he studied with his father. To avoid the confusion arising from the fact that father and son had both the same name, the son's was shortened by his parents to "Minnie." To the world without the name seemed peculiarly fitting for the timid little boy, and at once was fastened upon him. At twenty came the climacteric of the boy's life; he went to the war, and he became engaged. How the latter event was brought about, the village could not tell; its knowledge went no further than that he did his own "courtin'." He had small chance to enjoy his love-making, for he enlisted at the first call for soldiers. The tall, gawky boy blushed painfully when, at the station, where the villagers had assembled to cheer their departing soldiers, the minister called him "the youngest hero of the noble band." He forgot to blush when he reached Dixie, there was so much else to do. At the end of the four years he came back a captain. In its pride and affection, the village adopted the title, prefixed to the earlier name. His father and mother had both died in his absence. He found still another change: his sweetheart was to marry another man. She was a good, gentle girl, beloved by the village, which could not find place in its heart for stern chiding when she pleaded: "Captain Minnie is an excellent young man, but I was n't nothin' 'cept a

girl when he courted me. I'm a grown woman now, and feel very different toward Alfred from what I did to him." As for Captain Minnie, he said nothing. He went to the wedding, and, if not the most joyous guest present, was not the saddest. He lived on by himself, cooking, and caring for the old house, as his mother had taught him.

Thoughts of love, war, or death were far from him as he gazed over the river, which there by the village broadens into a hillencircled lake. His dreamy eyes flashed out glints like those in the river. Contentment rested on his face. "A fair prospect," he said aloud (those who live alone often talk to themselves)-"a fair prospect."

"Goin' ter cut yer lawn, Minnie?" said a gruff voice behind him. "It's been a-needin' it fer considerable time back."

Captain Minnie stood to attention. "Good mornin', Jared. Nice day, ain't it?" He spoke in a slow, gentle bass.

"Pretty good," responded the gruff voice, in the accents of one who could have made it better if he tried. "Terrible wet spell last week, was n't it?" He climbed the wall which separated the garden from the pasture with clumsy movements, for he was old and heavy. "Say, Minnie, um-er-" He shuffled about in the long grass uneasily, and then suddenly broke out: "Did you know that Virginy Green 's a-dyin'?” "No."

"Well, I'm relieved. Says I, 'Like ez not, some one 'll go blurtin' it out ter him 'fore I kin git there, an' break him all up.' So I come streakin' right off myself, soon ez I heard, ter tell you. I never did jest make up my mind 'bout how you felt that time when she up an' mittened you fer Alfred Greenyou goin' ter the weddin', an' that, made it kinder queer. Did you know she'd been sick long back?"

"Yes; consumption."

"Terrible wearin' disease. Seems ez if folks could n't die of it. Now, Virginy she's been 'bout so ever since 'long Christmastime."

Captain Minnie looked pitifully at the river, as if for aid. A white sail suggested a way of escape.

"Lect Beebe 's hauled his new boat up ter my dock," he said.

"Has? Well, I guess I'll mog 'long ter see what 'Lect 's made out ter buy." As he stumped toward the river he said grimly to himself: "Can't tell no more 'bout Minnie Ware's feelin's than you kin 'bout a woman's. Tell Harriet piece news big enough ter scoop

her right off her feet, all she 'll say 'll be, 'Um, that so?' Like ez not, all the time she 's a-ravin' like Huedie inside."

Left alone, the captain seated himself on the stone steps at the back of his house. This was his favorite seat, as it fronted the river. "Virginy dyin'," he repeated softly. "She's been dead to me a good many year. Twentyfive year it is since I come home, an' she told me Alfred was her ch'ice. Twenty-five year!" He closed his eyes to let the long dead years pass before his inner sight.

"Virginy was the prettiest girl I ever knew, an' the best," went on the groper in the past. "It was n't no wonder she loved him. He was a good man, too, an' he had sights er things 'bout him I did n't-stirrin' ways, an' nice manners ter folks. They said it was a sin fer her ter treat me so. Why, she could n't help thinkin' more o' him than she did o' me! It would hev been a sin if she'd 'a' married me, lovin' Alfred all the while, sp'ilin' two lives 'stead o' one. An' mine ain't sp'iled. I've hed considerable comfort here, all by myself." Then, as if the silent house and lonely garden pressed in upon him, he exclaimed, with a weary droop of the voice: "God knows, this 'd been a different place, an' me a different man, if she 'd 'a' lived here! Always singin' ter herself she was, an' movin' from one thing to 'nother, same ez a bird. I 've seen her, times out o' mind, comin' up the path yander, an' them with her. Like her they be, an' yet some like me; but most like her. I've seen 'em in the garden playin', an' on the steps here."

Captain Minnie was making his version of

I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fires.

"Mother said she liked her, 'cause she was pretty-behaved, an' kind, an' good-dispositioned. Jared he said she was shifty. I never pulled her to pieces that way to see how she was made. Why, I'd as soon think o' pullin' a violet to pieces to see how many leaves it's got, an' how them little green spikes in it are sot on. S'pose you do find out? It's a violet jest the same, an' has a sweetness an' beauty right down from heaven you can't tell nothin' how it got. I used ter call you my spring, Virginy, do you mind? You made me feel jest like spring does-contented, an' pleased, an' real anxious ter be good. 'T was easy ter be good with you, Virginy. Folks said 't was queer I did n't take on more. Guess I was like Fred Bushnell when the shell burst an'

made him stun-deaf-jest one awful pain, then did n't never anything seem ter come anywheres nigh him."

Some one was coming down the flagged walk. He rose with his usual gentle face. "Good morning, Captain Ware." The speaker was the minister.

"Good mornin', sir." Captain Minnie regarded ministers with only a shade less of fear than he did women.

"I have a request to make of you. Are you aware Mrs. Virginia Green is-ah-" "Dyin'?" supplied Captain Minnie, tersely. "Yes, dying. She has sent me to ask you to come to her. She especially desires to see you, as you were a―er-girlhood friend." "When she want me?" "Now, if possible."

Without a glance at his checked shirt and overalls, Captain Minnie followed the minister to his carriage, and drove silently off with him.

The Green farm stood on a lonely road two miles from the village. Lilacs, with their white and purple plumes, surrounded it on three sides. Behind it a sea of white fruit-blossoms stirred and sighed in the breeze. Narcissus, tulips, and jonquils made the dooryard glow. Hard to realize, amid all this exultant life, that the heavy numbness of death was stealing over the house! A woman met them on the porch. She led Captain Minnie down the hall to a door. "She's there," she said, and left him. He entered on tiptoe, closed the door behind him, and stood with eyes fastened upon the ground.

"You've come quick; it 's real good o' you," said a sweet, thin voice.

Captain Minnie stood as silent as before. "Won't you come sit by me, so ez I kin say what I want ter without gettin' so spent?"

Then, at last, he looked at the woman in the bed. She was fair and pretty, like a girl. He had not seen her since her illness, but that had not changed her. No lines of suffering showed on her face. Perhaps approaching eternity had smoothed away those left by vanishing time. He took the delicate hand she held out, and seated himself opposite her.

"Minnie," she said quickly, "you was always good-always, always. I knew it when I treated you so. Mother says to me then: 'He 's an excellent good man, Virginy, an' you'll suffer fer the way you 're actin' now.' An' many a time I 've thought I was, jest ez mother said, bein' so unfort'nate in money matters, an' Alfred dyin', an' now me, jest

in my prime. Why, Minnie," with a sudden cry, "I ain't but forty-nine. I s'pose I desarve it all; I done wrong."

"Don't, Virginy, don't! You could n't help lovin' Alfred. I never blamed you."

"I know you did n't. I 'd 'a' made you happy, though I was n't good enough fer you, I guess, Minnie."

'But would you hev been ez happy yourself? That's the p'int."

"No," she answered slowly. "Alfred was the only man ter make me happy."

"An' that was what I cared 'bout mostyer happiness. If we 'd been married, an' you'd begun ter love Alfred, why, if I could hev done it so ez it'd been right, I'd 'a' give you right over ter him."

His voice was very low. A sunbeam lighted his gray hair till it shone silvery bright. On his face was a look beautiful and solemn, as if touched by some thought from that faraway world whither the dying woman was hastening. A bewildered, almost annoyed expression crossed her face. She thought, as often before, "Minnie certainly does lack." When she spoke, it was with the gentle indifference of the dying.

"Hev it yer way 'bout my bein' good, an' I'll hev it mine 'bout you. "T ain't 'bout the dead an' dyin' I want ter talk. It's 'bout the livin'. You know how all my poor little first babies died off, so I ain't got no children left but Mary an' Robbie. They ain't but jest twelve an' thirteen year old. I want you ter be their guardeen, Minnie, an' the executor of my will. Phillenda's comin' here ter live." "Phillenda?"

"My sister from Rocky Ridge. Don't you mind her? She was only 'bout ten years old when we when I was married. She went over ter Grandma Start's ter live 'bout then. She's been takin' care o' me these last months. She's a real smart, likely girl. I think the world o' her. She 's goin' ter be j'int guardeen an' executor with you; that is, if you'll take it"-appealingly.

The awful truth was dawning upon Captain Minnie: she wished him to enter into a sort of partnership with this unknown woman. He wrung his hands as they lay concealed in his lap. He would have groaned but for the sick woman. In fifty years no kindness had ever been asked of him which he had refused. He felt it too late to begin

now.

"I'll do my best," he said simply. "Seems if I could die easier now. 'Fore you go, Minnie, tell me you forgive me, won't you?"

"There ain't nothin' ter forgive." "Jest say you forgive me, then." Captain Minnie smiled, as on a little child. "I do forgive you, dear," he said; then he bent down and kissed her.

For days Captain Minnie's one desire was that Virginia Green might live for weeksnot for her sake, or that of her children, but that he might postpone as long as possible the dreaded partnership. Vain desire! Mrs. Green died within a week. He went to the funeral, and to the reading of the will. In the gloom of the farm-house parlor, and among the host of relatives who seemed suddenly to have sprung up, he could not make out his particular woman. The day after the funeral was one of acutest misery. When must he go to see her? He decided not that day, or the next, or the next. Then he felt that the time had come. He cooked an early supper, which he was too unhappy to eat, harnessed his horse, dressed himself in what he called his "church clothes," though he had never entered a church since he owned them, and drove mournfully off. At the fork in the road which led to the farm he turned his horse up the opposite way. "Too early ter be goin' yet," he said. He drove on for a mile, circled the rear of the farm, and drove up the approach to the back door. "This ain't right," he said, a minute later. "Looks ez if I was a thief, a-comin' round the back way." He drove round the circle once more till he was again at the fork of the roads. "Kinder light fer callers yet, I guess," he said, peering through the last faint rays of the spring twilight. "Think I'll drive down ter the old bridge an' back."

Undue lightness could not be urged against his visit as he drove back. He struck a match to see the time. "Nine o'clock! Too late to go to-night." And he drove briskly home, with I know not what joy in his breast. The next night he drove straight down the lane to the farm, with never a glance at the comforting circle. Just at the gate he saw another carriage tied. He turned his own so swiftly that he nearly upset. "Better wait till she ain't got company." The third night he walked. He felt that escape would be more difficult with only two feet than with four, and he had made up his mind that he must not escape. His head swam, his body seemed on fire, and the surrounding world was one red blur, out of which a voice said:

"This 's Captain Ware, ain't it? I'm real glad ter see you. I've been expectin' you fer days."