“I’m kind of sorry, Zip,” she said. “I just didn’t mean all that. Only––only it makes me feel bad seeing all this around, and you––you always trying to do both a man’s and a woman’s work. Things are bad with us, so bad they seem hopeless. We’re right here with two kiddies and––and ourselves, and there’s practically no money and no prospects of there being any. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to do something desperate. It makes me hate things––even those things I’ve no right to hate. No, no,” as the man tried to stop her, “don’t you say anything. Not a word till I’ve done. You see, I mayn’t feel like talking of these things again. Maybe I shan’t never have a chance of talking them again.”
She sighed and stared out of window.
“I want you to understand things as I see them, and maybe you’ll not blame me if I see them wrong. You’re too good for me, and I––I don’t seem grateful for your goodness. You work and think of others as no other man would do. You don’t know what it is to think of yourself. It’s me, and the children first with you, and, Zip––and you’ve no call to think much of me. Yes, I know what you’d say. I’m the most perfect woman on earth. I’m not. I’m not even good. If I were I’d be glad of all you try to do; I’d help you. But I don’t, and––and I just don’t seem able to. I’m always sort of longing and longing for the old days. I long for those things we can never have. I think––think always of folks with money, their automobiles, their grand houses, with lots and lots of good things to eat. And it makes me hate––all––all this. Oh, Zip, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not good. But I’m not, and I––I––”
She broke off and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes in time to wipe away the great tears that threatened to roll down her rounded cheeks. In a moment Scipio was at her side, and one arm was thrust about her waist, and he seized one of her hands.
“You mustn’t to cry,” he said tenderly, as though she were a child. “You mustn’t, Jess––truth. You ain’t what you’re saying. You ain’t nothing like it. You’re dear and good, and it’s ’cause you’re that good and honest you’re saying all these things. Do you think I don’t know just how you’re suffering? Do you? Why, Jess, I know just everything about you, and it nigh breaks my heart to think of all I’ve brought you to. It ain’t you, Jess, it’s me who’s bad. It’s me who’s a fool. I hain’t no more sense than a buck rabbit, and I ain’t sure a new-littered pup couldn’t put me to sleep for savvee. Now don’t you go to crying. Don’t you indeed. I just can’t bear to see those beautiful eyes o’ yours all red and running tears. And, say, we sure have got better prospects than you’re figgering. You see, I’ve got a claim there’s no one else working on. And sure there’s minerals on it. Copper––or leastways it looks like copper, and there’s mica, an’ lots––an’ lots of stuff. I’ll sure find gold in that claim. It’s just a matter of keepin’ on. And I’m going to. And then, when we find it, what a blow-out we’ll have. We’ll get automobiles and houses, and––and we’ll have a bunch of sweet corn for supper, same as we had at a hotel once, and then––”
But the woman had suddenly drawn away from his embrace. She could stand no more of her little husband’s pathetic hopes. She knew. She knew, with the rest of the camp, the hopelessness of his quest, and even in her worst moments she had not the heart to destroy his illusions. It was no good, the hopelessness of it all came more than ever upon her.
“Zip dear,” she said, with a sudden, unwonted tenderness that had something strangely nervous in it, “don’t you get staying around here or I’ll keep right on crying. You get out to your work. I’m feeling better now, and you’ve––you’ve made things look kind of brighter,” she lied.
She glanced out of window, and the height of the sun seemed suddenly to startle her. Her more gentle look suddenly vanished and one of irritability swiftly replaced it.
“Now, won’t you let me help you with all these things?” Scipio coaxed.
But Jessie had seemingly quite forgotten her moment of tenderness.