Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 6,432 pages of information about Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works.

Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 6,432 pages of information about Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works.

Cokeson.  No.  But it’s a pitiful sight.  He’s quite a young fellow.  I said to him:  “Before a month’s up” I said, “you’ll be out and about with the others; it’ll be a nice change for you.”  “A month!” he said —­like that!  “Come!” I said, “we mustn’t exaggerate.  What’s a month?  Why, it’s nothing!” “A day,” he said, “shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it’s longer than a year outside.  I can’t help it,” he said; “I try—­but I’m built that way, Mr. Cokeson.”  And, he held his hand up to his face.  I could see the tears trickling through his fingers.  It wasn’t nice.

The chaplain.  He’s a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn’t he?  Not Church of England, I think?

Cokeson.  No.

The chaplain.  I know.

The governor. [To Wooder, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [Wooder salutes, and goes out] Let’s see, he’s not married?

Cokeson.  No. [Confidentially] But there’s a party he’s very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa.  It’s a sad story.

The chaplain.  If it wasn’t for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed.

Cokeson. [Looking at the chaplain over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special.  He had hopes they’d have let her come and see him, but they haven’t.  Of course he asked me questions.  I did my best, but I couldn’t tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here—­seemed like hitting him.  But I’m afraid it’s made him worse.

The governor.  What was this news then?

Cokeson.  Like this.  The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she’d left him.  Fact is, she was going away with our young friend.  It’s not nice—­but I’ve looked over it.  Well, when he was put in here she said she’d earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out.  That was a great consolation to him.  But after a month she came to me—­I don’t know her personally—­and she said:  “I can’t earn the children’s living, let alone my own—­I’ve got no friends.  I’m obliged to keep out of everybody’s way, else my husband’d get to know where I was.  I’m very much reduced,” she said.  And she has lost flesh.  “I’ll have to go in the workhouse!” It’s a painful story.  I said to her:  “No,” I said, “not that!  I’ve got a wife an’ family, but sooner than you should do that I’ll spare you a little myself.”  “Really,” she said—­she’s a nice creature—­“I don’t like to take it from you.  I think I’d better go back to my husband.”  Well, I know he’s a nahsty, spiteful feller—­drinks—­but I didn’t like to persuade her not to.

The chaplain.  Surely, no.

Cokeson.  Ye-es, but I’m sorry now; it’s upset the poor young fellow dreadfully.  And what I wanted to say was:  He’s got his three years to serve.  I want things to be pleasant for him.

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