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<h2> XI. </h2>
<p>Early the next morning Pete visited Kate in prison. He had something to
say to her, something to ask; but he intended to keep back his own
feelings, to bear himself bravely, to sustain the poor girl's courage. The
light was cold and ashen within the prison walls, and as he followed the
sergeant into the cell, he could not help but think of Kate as he had
first known her, so bright, so merry, so full of life and gaiety. He found
her now doubled up on a settle by a newly-kindled fire in the sergeant's
own apartment. She lifted her head, with a terrified look, as he entered,
and she saw his hollow cheeks and deep eyes and ragged beard.</p>
<p>"I'm not coming to trouble you," he said. "I've forgiven <i>him</i>, and
I'm forgiving you, too."</p>
<p>"You are very good," she answered nervously.</p>
<p>"Good?" He gave a crack of bitter laughter. "I meant to kill him—that's
how good I am. And it's the same as if all the devils out of hell had been
at me the night through to do it still. Maybe I hadn't much to forgive.
I'm like a bat in the light—I'm not knowing where I am ezactly.
Daresay the people will laugh at me when they're getting to know. Wouldn't
trust, but they'll think me a poor-spirited cur, anyway. Let them—there's
never much pity for the dog that's licked."</p>
<p>His voice shook, although so hard and so husky. "That's not what I came to
say, though. You'll be laving this place soon, and I'm wanting to ask—I'm
wanting to know——"</p>
<p>She had covered her face, and now she said through her hands, "Do as you
like with me, Pete. You are my husband, and I must obey."</p>
<p>He looked down at her for a moment. "But you cannot love me?"</p>
<p>"I have deceived you, and whatever you tell me to do I will do it."</p>
<p>"But you cannot love me?"</p>
<p>"I'll be a good wife for the future* Pete—I will, indeed, indeed I
will."</p>
<p>"But you cannot love me?"</p>
<p>She began to cry. "That's enough," he said. "I'll not force you."</p>
<p>"You are very good," she said again.</p>
<p>He laughed more bitterly than before. "Dou yo think I'm wanting your body
while another man has your heart? That's a game I've played about long
enough, I'm thinking. Good? Not me, missis."</p>
<p>His eyes, which had been fixed on the fire, wandered to his wife, and then
his lips quivered and his manner changed.</p>
<p>"I'm hard—I'll cut it short. Fact is, I've detarmined to do
something, but I've a question to ask first. You've suffered since you
left me, Kate. He has dragged you down a dale—but tell me, do you
love him still?"</p>
<p>She shuddered and crept closer to the wall.</p>
<p>"Don't be freckened. It's a woman's way to love the man that's done wrong
by her. Being good to her is nothing—sarvice is nothing—kindness
is nothing. Maybe there's some ones that cry shame on her for that—but
not me. Giving herself, body and soul, and thinking nothing what she gets
for it—that's the glory of a woman when she cares for anybody. Spake
up, Kate—do you love him in spite of all?"</p>
<p>The answer came in a whisper that was like a breath—"Yes."</p>
<p>"That'll do," said Pete.</p>
<p>He pressed his hand against the place of his old wound. "I might have
known you could never care for me—I might have known that," he said
with difficulty. "But don't think I can't stand my rackups, as the saying
is. I know my course now—I know my job."</p>
<p>She was sobbing into her hands, and he was breathing fast and loud.</p>
<p>"One word more—only one—about the child."</p>
<p>"Little Katherine!"</p>
<p>"Have I a right to her?"</p>
<p>She gasped audibly, but did not answer, and he tried a second time.</p>
<p>"Does she belong to me, Kate?"</p>
<p>Her confusion increased. He tried a third time, speaking more gently than
before.</p>
<p>"If I should lave the island, Kate, could I—must I—may I take
the child along with me?"</p>
<p>At that her fear got the better of her shame, and she cried, "Don't take
her away. Oh, don't, don't!"</p>
<p>"Ah!"</p>
<p>He pressed his hand hard at his side again.</p>
<p>"But maybe that's only mother's love, and what mother——"</p>
<p>He broke off and then began once more, in a voice so low that it was
scarcely to be heard. "Tell me, when the time comes—and it will
come, Kate, have no fear about that——"</p>
<p>He was breaking down, he was struggling hard. "When the time comes for
himself and you to be together, will you be afraid to have the little one
with you—will it seem wrong, Kate—you two and little Katherine—one
household—one family—no?—n—o?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"That's enough."</p>
<p>The words seemed to come out of the depths of his throat. "I've nothing
more to think about. <i>He</i> must think of all the rest."</p>
<p>"And you, Pete?"</p>
<p>"What matter about me? D'ye think there's anything worse coming? D'ye
think I'm caring what I ate, and what I drink, and what becomes of me?"</p>
<p>He was laughing again, and her sobs broke out afresh.</p>
<p>"God is good," he said more quietly. "He'll take care of the likes of me."</p>
<p>His motionless eyes were on the crackling fire, and he stood in the light
that flashed from it with a face like stone. "I've no child now," he
muttered, as though speaking to himself.</p>
<p>She slid to her knees at his feet, took the hand that hung by his side and
began to cover it with kisses. "Forgive me," she said; "I have been very
weak and very guilty."</p>
<p>"What's the use of talking like that?" he answered. "What's past is past,"
and he drew his hand away. "No child now, no child now," he muttered
again, as though his dispair cried out to God.</p>
<p>He was feeling like a man wrecked in mid-ocean. A spar came floating
towards him. It was all he could lay hold of from the foundering ship, in
which he had sailed, and sung, and laughed, and slept. He had thought to
save his life by it, but another man was clinging to it, and he had to
drop it and go down.</p>
<p>She could not look into his face again; she could not touch his hand; she
could not ask for his forgiveness. He stood over her for a moment without
speaking, and then, with his hollow cheeks, and deep eyes, and ragged
heard, he went away in the morning sunlight.</p>
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