On a lovely evening some thirty years ago there was a jolly wedding at the home of a young Irish girl in a Western city. Tom Evans, the groom, a big-hearted, jovial fellow, was deeply in love with the girl of his choice. He was earning good wages and he intended to take good care of his wife.

It was midnight, and the streets were flooded with brilliant moonlight when Evans started to take his bride from her home to his, accompanied on the way by Jim Maguire, Larry Flannigan, and Ned Foster, three of the wedding guests. They were not carriage folks and were walking to the street-car when Jim Maguire, who had not been averse to the exhilarating liquids in hospitable circulation at the wedding feast, became unduly hilarious and disported himself with song and dance along the sidewalk—a diversion in which the others took no part. This hilarity was summarily interrupted by a policeman, who attempted to arrest the young man for disorderly conduct, a proceeding vigorously resisted by Maguire.

This was the beginning of an affray in which the policeman was killed, and the whole party were arrested and taken into custody. As the policeman was well known, one of the most popular men on the force, naturally public indignation ran high and the feeling against his slayers was bitter and violent.

Tom Evans and Jim Maguire were held for murder, while Larry Flannigan, a boy of seventeen, and Ned Foster, as participants in the affair, were charged with manslaughter. The men were given fair trials—separate trials, I believe—in different courts, but it was impossible to get at the facts of the case, as there were no actual witnesses outside of those directly affected by the outcome; while each lawyer for the defence did his best to clear his own client from direct responsibility for the death of the policeman, regardless of the deserts of the others under accusation.

And so it came to pass that Jim Maguire and Tom Evans were "sent up" for life, while the bride of an hour returned to her father's house and in the course of time became the bride of another. Larry Flannigan was sentenced to fourteen years' imprisonment. Ned Foster, having served a shorter sentence, was released previous to my acquaintance with the others.

Some five years later one of the prison officers interested in Jim Maguire asked me to interview the man. Maguire was a tall, muscular fellow, restive under confinement as a hound in leash; nervous, too, and with abounding vitality ready at a moment's notice again to break out in song and dance if only the chance were given. This very overcharge of high animal spirits, excited by the wedding festivities, was the starting-point of all the tragedy. No doubt, too, in his make-up there were corresponding elements of recklessness and defiance.

Our first interview was the beginning of an acquaintance resulting in an interchange of letters; but it was not until a year afterward that in a long conversation Maguire gave me an account of his part in the midnight street encounter. Admitting disorderly conduct and resistance against the officer, he claimed that it was resistance only and not a counter attack; stating that the struggle between the two continued until the officer had the upper hand and then continued beating him into subjection so vigorously that Maguire called for help and was rescued from the hands of the officer by "one of the other boys." He did not say which one nor further implicate any one.

"Ask the other boys," he said. "Larry didn't have anything to do with the killing, but he saw the whole thing. Get Larry to tell the story," he urged.

And so I was introduced to Larry. He was altogether of another type from Maguire. I hardly knew whether he wore the convict stripes or broadcloth when I was looking into that face, so sunny, so kindly, so frank. After all these years I can never think of Larry without a glow in my heart. He alone, of all my prisoners, appeared to have no consciousness of degradation, of being a convict; but met me simply and naturally as if we had been introduced at a picnic.

I told him of my interview with Jim Maguire and his immediate comment was: "Jim ought not to be here; he resisted arrest but he did not kill the officer; he's here for life and it's wrong, it's terrible. I hope you will do something for Jim."

"But what of yourself?" I asked; "you seem to have been outside of the affair altogether. I think I'd better do something for you."

"Oh, no!" he protested, "you can get one man out easier than two. I want to see Jim out, and I don't want to stand in his way. You know I am innocent, and all my friends believe me innocent, and I'm young and well and can stand my sentence; it will be less than ten years with good time off. My record is perfect and I shall get along all right. But Jim is here for life."

I felt as if I were dreaming. I knew it would be a simple matter to obtain release for Larry, who had already been there six years, but no, the boy would not consider that, would not even discuss it. His thought was all for Jim, and he was unconscious of self-sacrifice. He simply set aside what seemed to him the lesser good in order to secure the greater.

"Did you ever make a full statement in court?" I asked.

"No. We were only allowed to answer direct questions in the examinations. None of us were given a chance to tell the straight story."

"So the straight story never came out at any of the trials?"

"No."

Thinking it high time that the facts of a case in which two men were suffering imprisonment for life should be ascertained and put on record somewhere, it then remained for me to interview Evans, and to see how nearly the statements of the three men agreed, each given to me in private six years after the occurrence of the event.

Tom Evans—I see him now clearly as if it were but yesterday—a thick-set, burly figure with an intelligent face of good lines and strong character; a man of force who from his beginning as brakesman might have worked his way up to superintending a railroad, had the plan of his destiny been different.

I told him frankly that I had asked to see him in the interest of the other two, and that what I wanted first of all was to get the facts of the case, for the tragedy was still a "case" to me.

"And you want me to tell the story?" I felt the vibration of restrained emotion in the man from the first as he pictured the drama enacted in that midnight moonlight.

"I had just been married and we were going to my home. The streets were light as day. Jim was singing and dancing, when the policeman seized him. I saw there was going to be a fight and I made up my mind to keep out of it; for when I let my temper go it gets away with me. So I stood back with my girl. Jim called for help but I stood back till I really believed Jim might be killed. I couldn't stand by and see a friend beaten to death, or take any chance of that. And so I broke into the fight. I got hold of the policeman's club and began to beat the policeman. I am a strong man and I can strike a powerful blow."

Here Evans paused, and there was silence between us until he said with a change of tone and expression:

"It was Larry who came to the help of the policeman and got the club away from me. It's Larry that ought to be out. Jim made the trouble and I killed the policeman, but Larry is wholly innocent. He is the one I want to see out."

At last we were down to bed-rock; there was no doubt now of the facts which the clumsy machinery of the courts had failed to reach.

I assured Evans that I would gladly do what I could for Larry, and then and there Evans and I joined hands to help "the other boys." I realized something of the sacrifice involved when I asked Evans if he was willing to make a sworn statement in the presence of the warden of the facts he had given me. What a touchstone of the man's nature! But he was following the lead of truth and justice and there was no turning back.

We all felt that it was a serious transaction in the warden's office next day when Evans came in and, after a little quiet conversation with the warden, made and signed a statement to the effect that he, and he only, struck the blows that killed the policeman, and with hand on the Bible made oath to the truth of the statement, which was then signed, as witnesses, by the warden and a notary.

As Evans left the office the warden said to me: "Something ought to be done for that man also when the other boys are out."

I knew that in securing this confession I had committed myself to all the necessary steps involved before the prison doors could be opened to Maguire and Larry. And in my heart I was already pledged to befriend the man who, with unflinching courage, had imperilled his own chances of liberation in favor of the others; for I was now beginning to regard Evans as the central figure in the tragedy.

It is no brief nor simple matter to obtain the release of a man convicted of murder by the court and sentenced to life imprisonment unless one has political influence strong enough to override all obstacles. Almost endless are the delays likely to occur and the details to be worked out before one has in hand all the threads necessary to be woven into the fabric of a petition for executive clemency.

In order to come directly in touch with the families of Larry and Maguire, and with the competent lawyer already enlisted in their service and now in possession of the statement of Evans, I went to the city where the crime was committed. The very saddest face that I had seen in connection with this affair was the face of Maguire's widowed mother. She was such a little woman, with spirit too crushed and broken by poverty and the fate of her son to revive even at the hope of his release. It was only the ghost of a smile with which she greeted me; but when we parted her gratitude called down the blessings of all the saints in the calendar to follow me all my days.

Larry's people I found much the same sort as he, cheerful, generous, bravely meeting their share of the hard luck that had befallen him, apparently cherishing the treasure of his innocence more than resenting the injustice, but most grateful for any assistance toward his liberation. The lawyer who had interviewed Larry and Maguire at the penitentiary expressed amazement at what he called "the unbelievable unselfishness" of Larry. "I did not suppose it possible to find that spirit anywhere, last of all in a prison," he said. Larry had consented to be included on the petition drawn up for Maguire only when convinced that it would not impair Maguire's chances.

When I left the place the lines appeared to be well laid for the smooth running of our plans. I do not now remember what prevented the presentation of the petition for commutation of both sentences to twelve[11] years; but more than a year passed before the opportune time seemed to be at hand.

During this interval Evans was by no means living always in disinterested plans for the benefit of the others. The burden of his own fate hung heavily over him and no one in the prison was more athirst for freedom than he. In books from the prison library he found some diversion, and when tired of fiction he turned to philosophy, seeking to apply its reasoning to his own hard lot; again, he sought in the poets some expression and interpretation of his own feelings. It was in the ever welcome letters that he found most actual pleasure, but he encountered difficulties in writing replies satisfactory to himself. In a letter now before me he says:

"I only wish that I could write as I feel, then indeed would you receive a gem; but I can't, more's the pity. But I can peruse and cherish your letters, and if I dare I would ask you to write oftener. Just think, the idea strikes me that I am writing to an authorous, me that never could spell a little bit. But the authorous is my friend, is she not, and will overlook this my defect. I have done the best I could to write a nice letter and I hope it will please you, but, in the words of Byron,

"With the last line of your letter I close, 'write soon, will you not?'"

Evans's letters to me were infrequent, as he kept in correspondence with his lawyers, who encouraged him to hope that he would not spend all his life behind the bars. Others, too, claimed his letters. He writes me:

"I have a poor old mother who expects and always gets my Christmas letters, but I resolved that you should have my first New Years letter, so here it is, wishing you a happy new year and many of them. No doubt you had many Christmas letters from here telling you of the time we had, and a jolly good time it was. It is awfully dark here in the cells to day and I can hardly see the lines to write on. I hope you won't have as much trouble in reading it." The handwriting in Evans's letters is vigorous, clear, and open; a straightforward, manly hand, without frills or flourishes.

Just as I was leaving home for one of my semi-annual visits to the penitentiary, I had information from their lawyer that the petition for Maguire and Larry would be presented to the governor the following month. Very much elated with the good news I was bringing I asked first for an interview with Evans. He came in, evidently in very good spirits, but as I proceeded to relate with enthusiasm what we had accomplished I felt an increasing lack of response on the part of Evans and saw the light fading from his face.

"O Miss Taylor," he said at last, with such a note of pain in his voice, "you know my lawyers have been working for me all this time. Of course I told them of the statement I made in the warden's office, and then left the case in their hands. One of them was here yesterday and has a petition now ready asking that my sentence be reduced to fifteen years. Now if the other petition goes in first——"

There was no need to finish the sentence for the conflict of interests was clear; and Evans was visibly unnerved. We talked together for a long time. While unwilling to influence his decision I realized that, if his petition should have first consideration and be granted, the value of that confession, so important to the others, would be impaired, and the chances of Maguire's release lessened; for the governors are wary in accepting as evidence the confession of a man who has nothing to lose. On the other hand, I had not the heart to quench the hopes that Evans's lawyers had kindled. And in answer to his question, "What shall I do?" I could only say: "That is for you to decide."

At last Evans pulled himself together enough to say: "Well, I'm not going back on the boys now. I didn't realize just how my lawyers' efforts were going to affect them. I'm going to leave the matter in your hands, for I know you will do what is right." And this he insisted on.

"Whatever course may seem best to take now, Tom, after this I shall never rest till I see you, too, out of prison," was my earnest assurance.

There had been such a spirit of fair play among these men that I next laid the case before Maguire and Larry, and we three held a consultation as to the best line of action. They, too, appreciated the generosity of Evans and realized, far more than I could, what it might cost him. Doubtless each one of the three felt the strong pull of self-interest; but there was no faltering in their unanimous choice of a square deal all around. One thing was clear, the necessity of bringing about an understanding and concerted action between the lawyers whose present intentions so seriously conflicted. The advice and moral support of the warden had been invaluable to me, and he and I both felt, if the lawyers could be induced to meet at the prison and consult not only with each other but with their three clients, if they could only come in direct touch with these convicts and realize that they were men who wanted to do the right thing and the fair thing, that a petition could be drawn placing Evans and Maguire on the same footing, and asking the same reduction of sentence for both; while Larry in justice was entitled to a full pardon. I still believe that if this course had been taken both petitions would have been granted. But lawyers in general seem to have a constitutional aversion to short cuts and simple measures, and Evans's lawyers made no response to any overtures toward co-operation.

At about this time occurred a change in the State administration, with the consequent inevitable delay in the consideration of petitions for executive clemency; as it was considered impolitic for the newly elected governor to begin his career by hasty interference with the decision of the courts, or too lenient an attitude toward convicts.

Then ensued that period of suspense which seems fairly to corrode the heart and nerves of the long-time convict. The spirit alternates between the fever of hope and the chill of despair. Men pray then who never prayed before. The days drag as they never dragged before; and when evening comes the mind cannot occupy itself with books while across the printed page the same questions are ever writing themselves: "Shall I hear to-morrow?" "Will the governor grant or refuse my petition?" One closes the book only to enter the restless and wearisome night, breathing the dead air of the prison cell, listening to the tread of the guard in the corridor. Small wonder would it be if in those midnight hours Evans cursed the day in which he declared that he alone killed the policeman; but neither in his letters to me nor in his conversation was there ever an indication of regret for that action. The Catholic chaplain of the prison was truly a good shepherd and comforter to his flock, and it was real spiritual help and support that he gave to the men. His advice at the confessional may have been the seed from which sprung Evans's resolve to clear his own conscience and exonerate the others when the opportunity came.

Maguire never fluctuated in his confidence that freedom was on the way, but he was consumed with impatience; Larry alone, who never sought release, bided his time in serene cheerfulness.

And the powers that be accepted Larry's sacrifice; for so long was the delay in the governor's office that Maguire was released on the day on which Larry's sentence expired. The world looked very bright to Jim Maguire and Larry Flannigan as they passed out of the prison doors into liberty together. Maguire took up life again in his old environment, not very successfully, I have reason to think. But Larry made a fresh start in a distant city, unhampered by the fact that he was an ex-convict.

It was then that the deadly blight of prison life began to throw its pall over Evans, and the long nervous strain to undermine his health. He wrote me:

"I am still working at the old job, and I can say with truth that my antipathy to it increases each day. I am sick and tired of writing to lawyers for the last two years, and it amounted to nothing. I will gladly turn the case over to you if you can do anything with it."

The event proved that these lawyers were interested in their case, but politically they were in opposition to the governor and had no influence; nor did I succeed better in making the matter crystallize.

I had always found Evans animated and interested in whatever we were talking about until one interview when he had been in prison about thirteen years, all that time on prison contract work. The change in his appearance was evident when he came into the room. He seated himself listlessly, and my heart sank, for too well I knew that dull apathy to which the long-time men succumb. Now, knowing with what glad anticipation he had formerly looked forward to our interviews, I was determined that the hour should not pass without leaving some pleasant memory; but it was twenty minutes or more before the cloud in his eyes lifted and the smile with which he had always greeted me appeared. His whole manner changed as he said: "Why, Miss Taylor, I am just waking up, beginning to realize that you are here. My mind is getting so dull that nothing seems to make any impression any more." He was all animation for the rest of the time, eagerly drinking in the joy of sympathetic companionship.—What greater joy does life give?

But I had taken the alarm, for clearly the man was breaking down, and I urged the warden to give him a change of work. The warden said he had tried to arrange that; but Evans was on contract work, one of the best men in the shop, and the contractors were unwilling to give up so profitable a workman—the evils of the contract system have much to answer for. So Evans continued to work on the contract, and the prison blight progressed and the man's vitality was steadily drained. When the next winter came and la grippe invaded the prison, the resisting power of Evans was sapped; and when attacked by the disease he was relegated to the prison hospital to recuperate. He did not recuperate; on the contrary, various symptoms of general physical deterioration appeared and it was evident that his working days on the prison contract were over.

A renewed attempt was now made to procure the release of Evans, as his broken health furnished a reason for urgency toward immediate action on the part of the governor, and this last attempt was successful. The good news was sent to Evans that in a month he would be a free man, and I was at the prison soon after the petition was granted. I knew that Evans was in the hospital, but had not been informed of his critical condition until the hospital physician told me that serious heart trouble had developed, intensified by excitement over the certainty of release.

No shadow of death was visible or was felt in this my last visit with Evans, who was dressed and sitting up when I went in to see him. Never, never have I seen any one so happy as was Evans that morning. With heart overflowing with joy and with gratitude, his face was radiant with delight. All the old animation was kindled again, and the voice, no longer lifeless, was colored and warm with feeling.

"I want to thank everybody," he said, "the governor, my lawyers, the warden, and you. Everybody has been so good to me these last weeks. And I shall be home for next Sunday. My sister is coming to take me to her home, and she and my mother will take care of me until I'm able to work. Sister writes me that mother can't sit still, but walks up and down the room in her impatience to see me."

We two friends, who had clasped hands in the darkness of his fate, were together now when the dawn of his freedom was breaking, neither of us realizing that it was to be the greater freedom of the Life Invisible.

To us both, however, this hour was the beautiful culmination of our years of friendship. I read the man's heart as if it were an open book and it held only good will toward all the world.

Something moved me to speak to him as I had never spoken to one of my prisoners, to try and make him feel my appreciation of his courage, his unselfishness, his faithfulness. I told him that I realized how he had lived out the qualities of the most heroic soldier. To give one's life for one's country when the very air is charged with the spirit of patriotism is a fine thing and worthy of the thrill of admiration which it always excites. But liberty is dearer than life, and the prison atmosphere gives little inspiration to knightly deeds. This man had risen above himself into that higher region of moral victory. And so I said what was in my heart, while something deeper than happiness came into Evans's face.

And then we said good-by, smiling into each other's eyes. This happened, I think, on the last day but one of Evans's life.

Afterward it was told in the prison that Evans died of joy at the prospect of release. For him to be carried into the new life on this high tide of happiness seemed to me a gift from heaven. For in the thought of the prisoner freedom includes everything to be desired in life. The joy of that anticipation had blinded Evans to the fact that his health was ruined beyond repair. He was spared the realization that the life of freedom, so fair to his imagination, could never truly be his; for the prison-house of disease has bolts and bars which no human hand can withdraw.

But that mother! If she could have read only once again the light of his love for her in the eyes of her son! But the sorrows of life fall alike upon the just and the unjust.