The Project Gutenberg eBook of Men of their race
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Men of their race
Author: Helen R. Hull
Release date: October 15, 2026 [eBook #79785]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Mary Fanton Roberts, Inc., 1920
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79785
Credits: Jens Sadowski. This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN OF THEIR RACE ***
Men of Their Race
Helen R. Hull
The Touchstone, vol. 8, Oct. 1920, pp. 1-12.
“Who’s that in the kitchen?”
Jessie bent over the bed, folding down the sheet under the sharp chin.
The question buzzed against her ear. She moved along the bed, smoothing
the blanket over the quiet feet.
“Someone’s down there,” insisted the old woman. “I can hear a different
voice.”
“Walsh, they said his name was.” Jessie drew the small table near the
bed. “Dick Walsh. An oldish man.”
“Dick Walsh!” A quiver moved over the dry, wrinkled face, and the eyes
under heavy folds of eyelids sharpened with interest. “So he’s back!”
“Does he—” Jessie pushed back the muslin curtains at the window; a flush
crept under the moist pallor of her face. “Does he belong to the Walshes
up on the hill?”
“He’s Robert’s brother. He belongs to ’em all right.”
“Robert’s brother! But he’s an old man——”
“Old, is he? I guess he would be, with the life he’s led. What’s he come
back for? Robert better send him away. He’s got a start on his farm now.
If Sarah Walsh sees what sort of men folks she’s married into——”
“What’s the matter with him?” Jessie felt the cool night breeze push
into the room, bending aside the thick, sweetish odor of liniment and
oils.
“Matter with him? He’s a Walsh. A drinking, selfish wastrel. They can’t
be decent to women or themselves. Men of their race—it’s in their blood,
handsome fools!”
Jessie stood for a moment at the side of the bed, afraid of the bright
little eyes that peered up at her.
“He looks worn out,” she said. “He looks old enough to be Mr. Walsh’s
father.”
“I saw you walking down the road with Robert!” The eyelids folded over
the malicious gleam. “Dick was a handsome boy, too.”
Jessie’s heart moved in a wave of fear. Did the old woman mean—anything?
She stared at the head on the pillow, a wrinkled mask. An old woman,
dying; life retreating within her, as though blood no longer ran through
her veins, but was hoarded, a few last drops, in some secret depth. All
summer, and the slow days of early autumn, she had lain there, and
Jessie had tended her. How could she have any suspicion?
The girl leaned quickly above the lamp on the table and blew it out. As
the flame leaped up before it died, she saw the heavy lids lifting.
“Go along and get your walk.” The old voice crackled.
“Are you comfortable now, Mrs. Cummins?”
“I’ll do, I guess.”
At the door Jessie looked back. The small night lamp in the hall blurred
the outlines in the room. She did not know whether the old eyes followed
her.
But on the stairs she glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid she might
see in the shadow malicious gleaming points of light. How foolish she
was! That was only a bedridden old woman, querulous or childish or
cheerful as the pain determined. What could she know of meetings in the
orchard, in the lane which led to the lake? Had a new sense grown in her
with the dulling of old senses, so that she sniffed what happened
outside her chamber?
“Is that you, Jessie?” That was Ral Cummins, the son.
She stepped to the doorway of the sitting room, pulling on her sweater.
Ral and his wife, and this Walsh man; the thick odor of farm boots and
pipes and the bright oil lamp.
“Don’t you want to come in and set a while?”
Dick Walsh looked like Robert, with the bright, firm life of Robert’s
face mottled and sagged.
“I’m just going out for a breath of air—” Jessie moved away from the
door.
“Night air’s bad for pretty faces—” The men chuckled. Jessie heard Ral’s
wife explaining:
“Jessie Dealey. She’s from farther up state. Her father died, and she’d
always lived home with him, and so the doctor got her to take care of
mother. I couldn’t see to her and the house, too.”
Then she was out of the house, running down the path to the road, in the
cool, impenetrable night. Her feet made little sounds along the
gravelled road. Slowly the night took shape around her, a great willow
tree rustling above her, the contour of the land shouldering against the
sky, dropping from the hills near her to a distant pale horizon. Then
the orchard, the trees near the wall thrusting their grotesque masses
between her and the stars, moving slowly past her; the soft dripping of
water overflowing the drinking barrel under the wall. She left the road
and climbed up through the orchard, her feet slipping in the grassy ruts
of the lane, her heart lifting into swift rhythm. She had said she would
not come! That morning, when she had gone out to the postbox for the
mail and Robert, driving past, had leaned from his seat to say, “I’ll
wait for you at the upper wall of the orchard, tonight,” she had laughed
and said, “You’ll have to wait a long time!” And through the day, when
flashes of his face—fair, lean, his blue eyes demanding, cajoling—had
blurred her work, she had set her small full mouth and said, “I won’t
go!” Now, “I won’t stay,” she thought, desperately. “It can’t do any
harm to see him—once more—to tell him I won’t stay.”
A movement in the bushes along the lane startled her; just a bird, with
a flutter of protest at her intrusion. She found the gap in the wall and
clambered over into the orchard. The cool sweet scent of ripened apples
hung about her.
She listened. No sound but the swish and plop of an apple falling. She
moved slowly over the irregular ground, her feet brushing through the
coarse grass, until she stood on a little rise of land which dropped
gently, clear of trees for some distance. The night was less dark there;
she could distinguish clearly the pile of boulders. Robert had not come.
She sat down on one of the smooth rocks, her arms huddled about her
knees, her eyes straining into the obscure shadows. Perhaps he wouldn’t
come. His brother might start home, and meet him on the road. She wished
she hadn’t seen Dick Walsh. Selfish, drunken wastrel—he had stared at
her with eyes like Robert’s, except for the grayish folds about them.
They would have to be careful—of a man like that. But she would have
nothing to be careful of! This was to be the last time she would creep
up the lane at night.
And then, tomorrow, if Robert drove past and whispered, “Tonight, in the
orchard——”
She had tried to think; she would go away, somewhere. But where? If she
went, what would become of her? She felt herself in that vague future,
torn apart by the teeth of this desire. Why should she go? No one cared
what happened to her. She was wicked, wicked! But that was only a word,
and tomorrow was a word, cold and impotent against tonight, and her
tense, quivering body, where her senses hung, winged, waiting his
coming. “Time enough to be good when we’re old,” Robert had kissed her
protest away. “What’s wrong in loving?” Old—like Mrs. Cummins. Suppose
she went away and grew old—when Robert loved her!
She crouched against the stones at a sound beyond the wall, an apple
crunching under a heel. She saw a shadow moving among the shadows of the
trees, heard a soft, staccato whistle. She might crawl away and hide!
But the shadow grew tangible above her, and with a low, triumphant,
“Jessie!” laid strong, warm hands on her shoulders, and drew her up
against a heart as mad as her own.
Nothing else in the night but his intense, seeking kiss, the enclosing
pressure of his arms. He released her suddenly.
“Sorry you came?” His face was so near Jessie caught the gleam of his
strong, even teeth. “Let’s sit down. I can’t stay but a minute tonight.”
He pulled her down on the rocks, his arm over her shoulders.
“Dick—that’s my brother—is around. He—well, I don’t want him getting
wise to this.” His fingers pushed under the sweater cuff, moved gently
over her soft arm. But Jessie shivered, the sweet languor gone. Was it
Dick who held her there in the dark? The same stocky shoulders, firm
chin, broad forehead. “Happy, Jessie?” Robert rubbed his cheek against
hers, in a swift, rough caress.
“Happy!” Something snapped in Jessie, letting her down, down. She
huddled away from Robert, and suddenly she was crying in little rasping
sobs. “Oh, I wisht I was dead! I wisht I was dead!”
“Why, Jessie!” The man made a startled movement of withdrawal. “What’s
the matter? What—” He seized her hands. “Has somebody found out about
us?” He was hostile, threatening, leaning toward her.
“No, no. I wish they had. Then they’d do something. I can’t stand it.”
“Well, what’s the trouble, then?” His voice had relief in its tone.
“Don’t cry——”
“What’s to become of me?” Jessie strangled on a sob. “I can’t sleep,
nights, any more—trying to think what to do.”
“Now, see here!” Robert pulled her back into his arms and lifted her
face, the rough tips of his fingers firm under her chin. “You said you
wouldn’t fuss any more, didn’t you? What good does it do, eh? Here you
are, spoiling the little time we had tonight. Don’t you want me loving
you any more?”
Jessie’s body resisted his arms.
“That’s why—” she whispered. “I ought to go away, and I can’t.” She went
limp into his close grasp. “Robert, help me! You got me to loving you——”
“Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? Nothing’s any different. You women
folks are all alike. Can’t have any fun without starting to spoil
things. What you want to go away for? Making me feel bad! I guess you’re
kinda tired. Old lady Cummins been working you hard? Making you pull a
long face about me? You’re too soft and sweet. Let the old folks worry.
Time enough for that some day. There’s a girl! Kiss me, little Jessie.”
But for once the whirl of passion under his lips failed to catch Jessie.
It was a careless wind on the surface, and she lay beneath in the deep
water of misery.
“There!” Jessie felt his laugh, as it lifted his breast and loosened his
arms, like a blow on her quiescent body. “Damn Dick anyhow! He’ll be
back at the house. I’ve got to go along.” He stood beside her, his
shadow strong, sure of outline. “Tomorrow, Jessie? I’ll get away early.
You’ll be my sweet girl again?”
When Jessie could no longer hear his quiet, steady steps down the lane
she flung herself on the grass, one arm doubled under her head. She
could see Robert climbing the long hill to his farm, turning in under
the great walnut tree, pushing open the door off the side porch. His
wife would be sitting there; Jessie had seen her once, a small, dark
woman. Perhaps Dick would be there, at the other side of the table,
looking up at Robert’s entrance with a leer at the back of his eyes.
Swiftly, under her burning eyelids, moved the summer; not so much in
images as in the texture of her whole consciousness—flesh, nerves,
speeding blood. The day in early summer; she had climbed through the
stagnant heat of the valley up to a hill pasture, into the little breeze
from the distant river which wavered from hill-top to hill-top, above
the heat. She had closed her eyes and flung her arms back of her head,
against the tree, to feel the breeze touch her moist throat. She had
opened them straight into Robert’s gay blue eyes. He had come up from
the lake in the woods, his hair still damp from his swim. He knew her
name, had seen her down the hill; he had talked—what had he said? She
remembered only the new, unbidden thrill under that bold, bright glance
of his.
She dreamed of him that night. She had not known his name.
Then she waited to see him again. The memory of those days of
waiting—hot, still breathless days; like the trees, held in every leaf
in rich quiet, until a sudden summer wind rushed into the valley from
the river, whipping branches and leaves into riot.
She had been sent on an errand for Mrs. Cummins, to the Walsh farm. She
had knocked, and then in the room darkened by vines over the window, had
seen a woman sitting by the table. She was shelling peas, and in the dim
light her hands, the small oval of her face, seemed to have borrowed
pale green light, like water. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Walsh,” she had
said. “He’s somewhere back of the house.”
Jessie had gone slowly, being tired, past the barns and poultry yard;
she saw the horses first, square heavy bodies and patient necks.
Then—ah, the wind rushing at the leaves!—the man, tugging the great
leather collar over the head of the gray horse. He had seen her, had
dropped the collar and come toward her, with his arrogant, quick stride,
his eyes very blue in his sun-burned face. “Hello!” he had called. “Come
to see me?” She could feel in her nostrils again, instead of the faint
smell of the grass she pressed against, the odor of soil and sun-warmed
leather on his hands. She had withdrawn in frightened hostility from his
laughing, demanding stare, had given him her message and fled.
The days that followed ached within her; the old woman fretting at her
in the heat; sharpened grief for the safe uneventful days with her
father before his death; sudden waking in the night, to twist and turn,
her hands pressed against her body to stop the dull, frightening
throbbing.
She had put Robert out of her thoughts, ashamed of those days of
waiting. If, in the unquested dreams of day or night, she found herself
tormented by bright, dominant eyes, what could she do!
Then one day, as she walked from the village along the dusty road, he
had overtaken her, had stopped his car, and offered her, in ordinary
neighbor fashion, a ride.
If she had gone away that night!
She sat up, breathing heavily; her hand pushed at the rough stones. She
was being torn apart in separate quivering memories. The weeks since
that day she had walked in a warm, dark dream, all thought and volition
gone from her. That was wickedness. “What’s the harm?” Robert had said.
“You’re lonesome, I’m lonesome. Why not be happy?”
But thought had come again, gnawing at the edges of her dream. Robert
wouldn’t listen. Then—when was it—two days ago? Old Mrs. Cummins had
said, “How’s Sarah Walsh? Why don’t she come to see me?” Mary, her
daughter-in-law, had answered sharply, “You know, mother! She can’t get
out.”
“Why not?” the old woman had insisted.
“Have you forgotten? She’s—expecting. She’s had a bad summer.”
That was all. But it had corroded the dream, eating out all the ecstasy,
all the sweetness, leaving only tortured fear.
Robert—she heard the old woman’s thin voice. “Wastrels. Can’t be decent
to women or themselves. The Walsh blood.”
That first time he had kissed her, and she had struggled to escape her
great need for submission to his love. He had answered her protest,
“Sarah?” and sneered. “You needn’t worry about her. She hates me. She’s
done with me. She doesn’t even see me any more.”
She couldn’t talk to Robert. He laughed at her. If she insisted—she knew
how anger sucked the light out of his face, leaving it hard, like a
great eagle, with its arched, prominent nose and straight mouth. But a
child! His! Revulsion swept through her in waves of nausea. She hated
him!
Suddenly she was afraid of the night with its soft sounds in trees and
grass. She stumbled to her feet and ran, sobbing as her sweater caught
on the brambles near the wall, through the dark lane between crouching
shadows of the bushes, out to the gray road.
Not until she had crept into bed, in her cot in the corner of old Mrs.
Cummins’ room, did the frantic beating of her heart stop. The room was
full of the harsh, irregular breathing of the old woman. She held her
own breath, listening. Some night, that room would be still, free of
that difficult slow sound. Ah, if she could die, as easily as that old
woman! If she held her breath long enough—she gasped, turning against
her pillow to stifle the sound. She didn’t want to die! Going away,
alone; worse than death. If Robert loved her, hadn’t she a right to
stay? Right? No, it was wrong, everything. No one, anywhere, to help
her.
The next morning came. Jessie moved about at her tasks, listless, dull.
The emotions of the night clung, batlike, far above her, waiting for the
dark again. She had, finally, carried down the breakfast tray, righted
the room, adjusted an extra pillow under Mrs. Cummins’ head, and drawn
the curtain so that she could look out across the valleys, which lay in
purple haze. Ral came to the door, hearty, good-natured.
“Well, ma, feeling pretty smart? Want to help me pick apples?”
“’F you hold the ladder!” she chuckled. “Picking apples? I want some
apples to send up to Sarah Walsh. You leave ’em on the steps, and
Jessie’ll run up with them.”
He had clumped down the stairs, and Jessie flinched under the old
woman’s blinking gaze.
“’Twon’t take you long to run up there. Mis’ Walsh’ll be glad to see
you. She don’t get out much.”
“I was going to rinse out that blanket for you.” Jessie opened the door
of the closet; she wanted a shield between her and the woman.
“’Tisn’t a good drying day. Too misting. And it won’t take you long.
Just up the hill.”
She couldn’t go to that house. Her flesh crawled at the fuzzy texture of
the wrapper with which her hands fumbled. She couldn’t say, “I won’t
go!” Mrs. Cummins waited. Waited to hear her protest, perhaps. What had
the old eyes seen!
“You’re looking kind of peaked,” the thin voice went on. Jessie stood in
the doorway. “Walk’ll do you good. You like lots of air—sometimes.”
Jessie whirled, but her anger drooped, powerless against that puckering
smile on the wrinkled face. She went down through the empty house. Ral’s
wife was helping gather the apples. On the rear porch Ral had left them,
a tin pail full. Jessie stooped, and the red of the apples vanished in
racing blackness. She lifted the pail, and in an instant the blackness
had gone, leaving a world strangely green. She thought: if Mrs. Cummins
knew about me, she would just send me away. She doesn’t know. It’s just
her way.
But she crawled up the hill, fear at her heels, fear lying in wait at
the end of her journey. Robert wouldn’t be there; surely he would be at
work. She could leave the apples on the step, and say no one was home.
But Mrs. Cummins knew Sarah was home. Always home, now.
She turned in at the drive. Fine chips under her feet, white, fresh
splinters. Robert had cut his kindling there. A pile of dry brown vines
near the step; winter beans, not yet picked over. Homely things, part of
his days, in which she had no share. She knocked, and the sound
thundered at her. Then she heard, from the pasture above the house,
Robert’s shout: “Dick! Oh, Dick!” and an answer, “Right-o. Coming!”
The door opened. Jessie saw, first, the quick contraction of the white
forearm, as though it braced the whole body; her eyes darted to the face
of the woman, Sarah, Robert’s wife—dark eyes staring, lips parted in a
sudden breath.
“Mrs. Cummins sent these to you.” Jessie set down the pail and stepped
back.
“Will you come in?” Sarah asked, slowly.
“I have to get back to work.” Jessie felt that dark intent gaze hold
her. Within her began a desperate fluttering, a beating against nets
spread to capture her.
“No. Come in. I want you to come in.”
Jessie stepped over the threshold, her eyes bright with panic. The
kitchen was full of light; the fall wind had torn the leaves from the
vines over the window, and through the haze the pale sun made splotches
on the white oilcloth of the table, on the yellow worn floor, on Sarah’s
blue apron.
“Won’t you sit down? I’ll get another chair.” Sarah crossed the room,
her small head lifted.
Jessie hated her. Robert’s wife, heavy with child—his child—moving with
that slow pride. She glanced about her furtively; she could escape, even
now. On a nail behind the door hung a rough gray coat, Robert’s. The
girl’s soft mouth trembled, and her hands twisted together. Sarah came
back, dragging her chair; about her movements an ominous deliberateness.
Jessie felt fear crawling in her muscles. She thought: I must be getting
crazy, suspecting everybody.
Sarah leaned forward, resting her arms on the table; thin, white arms,
purple veined in the hollows of the elbows.
“It’s queer you should come in this morning,” she said, finally. Then
she was silent again.
“She’s not pretty,” thought Jessie. “Ugly, with those shadows under her
great eyes!”
“Did you know—” Sarah’s smiling lips, under her sombre eyes, were
sinister. “Did you know Robert left you last night for a little
red-haired clerk in the village?”
“Oh, no! No!” Jessie’s cry crashed back against her own ears. The woman
had laid a trap, had caught her! She huddled into her chair, her face
distorted.
“Did you think he would be more faithful to you than to me?”
Jessie’s fingers clutched at her chair; she wanted to hurl herself at
that pale face, to tear down the fine dark coils of hair, to beat the
lie off those crooked lips. It wasn’t true! The woman was baiting her,
trying to find out. Warily she spoke.
“What do you mean, saying that to me?”
“Perhaps—” the long fingers moved on the table—“perhaps you have felt
bad. You don’t look so fresh and unthinking as you did in the summer.
And you’ve been bothering him—” Her soft voice burrowed at the roots of
Jessie’s anger. “So he went hunting, for another pretty face—”
Cold sweat on her temples, on the palms of her hands; something
strangling her. Robert, striding off down the lane in the dark—a
red-haired girl!
“Now you know how I felt!”
Jessie lurched forward in her chair, trying to get up, to escape. But
her knees crumpled under her.
“No, you mustn’t go. I had to see you. I wondered what sort of woman you
were. You’re just a little soft thing, aren’t you?”
“Oh, let me go!” Jessie cried out. “Or kill me, if you want to! I wish I
was dead.”
“I did want to. You and him both.” A shudder trembled down to the tips
of Sarah’s fingers. “But that was—at first.”
“You’ve known—all this time—and kept still—”
“I meant to go away. But I was sick.” On Sarah’s face had come an
inscrutable pale glow, like candle flame under a hand.
“I didn’t want to love him. I tried not to. I couldn’t seem to stop.
There wasn’t anything to hang on to to keep from it. I didn’t know you
were—with child.” In some way that light on Sarah’s face devoured her,
ate its way into her vitals. Unless she could explain, could justify
herself, she would go always with that agony of humiliation within her.
“I thought he loved me. And I wasn’t taking anything that was yours—if
it was me he loved. He said you hated him. Oh, curse me! Spit on me!
Don’t sit there—when I found out you were to have a child, I wanted just
to die.”
Sarah lifted her head, the column of her throat tense.
“Why? What difference did that make—to you?” Then, swiftly, “You loved
him that much? That was a lie I told you. About the girl. I wanted you
to suffer, too.”
“He didn’t go—” Jessie’s hand doubled against her mouth, pulling it
sidewise.
“But it would be true, some day, soon. Before you there was another
woman. She sent him packing, though. She wanted a man of her own.”
“It’s between just you and me.” Jessie’s hand moved down to her breast.
“You’re keeping him—when he doesn’t love you nor you him.”
“It’s more than that.” Sarah extended her arm along the table. “I
thought that, up till a little while ago. I planned to go away. To leave
him to you and the others. Oh, there would be others. You believed he
had gone, didn’t you? I thought you must be wanton, cruel, but you
aren’t. You’re only—” Her hand dropped open on the white cloth.
Jessie shivered under the black, dilated eyes; something in them beating
her down into nothingness.
“You love him, and so—” Sarah drew her arms slowly from the table,
clasped them about her knees; she turned her head toward the window. Her
drooping neck, the curve of shoulders and extended arms, made of her
heavy body a single gesture, silence, sheltering and waiting. The woman
had withdrawn into remote sanctuary. Jessie was afraid; the calm white
brow, the drooping neck with the coiled dark hair against the pale skin,
had become unassailable.
“You saw his brother, Dick. He spoke of you. Spent, sodden, wasted. His
wife, the first one, divorced him. And the rest of his women—There was
another brother. And his father. They kill themselves with women and
drink.” Sarah’s words came softly.
Behind them Jessie heard the old woman’s shrill, “Men of their race.” As
though Sarah, too, heard it, her soft words went on:
“Have they told you about old Mrs. Cummins? People round here have
almost forgotten, but she hasn’t. That’s why she’s noticed you and
Robert. She was going to marry his uncle. Another Robert Walsh. Just
before the wedding she threw him over. Something about another girl. She
hates the Walsh men. She’s waiting to see Robert go the same way.”
That old woman, with a hate left from her youth!
“Fine lovers, never growing into men. Always the same story, their women
suffering, hating them, forgiving them, leaving them.” She turned her
face toward Jessie again. “And yet there’s something else in them.
Robert told you I hated him. I have—this summer. But at first, last
spring, it was only that I was sick. When I knew I was pregnant, I had
to be alone. I didn’t want him. He didn’t like that. He was jealous—and
he didn’t know what he was jealous of. So he went off.” She dropped into
silence again. Then, “But the child is in my womb—you will know,
someday, how that quickening makes you not a woman—grovelling with
beasts before men began—yet reaching up and up. Not one woman, but
more.”
Jessie swayed forward in her chair. The strange words delved within her,
disturbing memories faint, terrible, intangible, memories not her own.
“I had thought I would go away with my child. I could bear it alone and
care for it. Then I saw Robert and his father and men back of them,
slipping back generation after generation, never going ahead. Robert is
part of my child. If he slips back—oh, do you see?”
Hot tears falling now on Jessie’s face, on her clenched hands.
“Last night I felt my child move, felt it, under my hand. I thought,
perhaps men, never feeling that—slip back more easily. Then I saw
clearly, almost like a vision. Love, real love, has to conceive in them.
Not flesh growing in flesh. But out of me, if I could love him enough,
would come fruit. No child. The man himself!” Sarah paused, her eyes
contracting, as though she returned from secret places and saw Jessie
again. “I wanted to see you. I wondered—perhaps you could do that for
him—better than I. Could you?”
Jessie’s hands pressed against her soft body, against the treacherous
desires which racked her. Suppose she said yes! Would this unreal woman
go away, leaving Robert—for her? What then? He wouldn’t stay. She knew.
He wore his love for her lightly, a careless outer garment; he would
doff it as lightly. She scarcely understood Sarah’s words, but slowly
out of them rose a great fog, dissolving the room in which she sat,
obscuring her own pain. A fog full of dim figures. Figures moving with
abandon along precipitious paths. Stretching back beyond time. Slipping,
clinging with bleeding fingers to the rocks. Below them monstrous shapes
in slow, rhythmic motion; monstrous tentacles weaving sluggishly up from
the abyss. One figure nearer than the rest, turning his face, strong
eagle’s face, distorted as he flung his arms high, reeling at the edge.
Jessie plunged to her feet, her hands beating before her eyes, fighting
at the fog. The room settled around her. She saw again Sarah’s dark,
brooding eyes. Had Sarah thrown her vision out around her?
“You can’t change him!” She thrust the words out in a last, desperate
cry. “He’s what he is!”
Sarah rose, leaning against the table.
“Yes,” she said. “What is he?”
Then Jessie retreated, step by step, until she felt her hand touch the
door behind her.
“I’ll go away.” Her whisper implored Sarah, begged against that light in
the woman’s face, a light not human, and yet brought up from the slow,
warm source of life itself. “I’m going.”
Through the open door, cutting the soft air, came Robert’s voice
shouting at his horses. Jessie hung taut for an instant, listening.
Then, blindly, she ran down the steps across the grass to the road.
The steep hill dropped beneath her as she ran, as though the earth
turned swiftly from her. If she stumbled and fell, she would be hurled
over its rim into space! The wind was cold on her wet cheeks. Round a
curve, gasping softly, she saw the pointed roof of the Cummins house,
and slackened her flight.
She went more slowly past the orchard. Voices among the trees. They were
still gathering the apples. Only a little time ago she had climbed the
hill. Summer was over; they were gathering the harvest. She stood at the
door of the house. In that upper room the old woman lay, waiting. She
had known, all these weeks. She had told Sarah. Her hate had sharpened
her eyes. Jessie shivered; she herself had been to Mrs. Cummins only
another instrument of wrath against the race of Walshes. And now, when
she entered the room, that dry smile would splinter into words, harsh,
bitter words.
She must go up to her and say, “I am going away.” Her shoulders drooping
in humility, as though the old woman’s words already beat upon her, she
climbed the stairs and pushed open the door.
In the still room the old woman lay, her face toward the window, where
the valley’s haze had lightened into misty blue. Her secret, hostile
smile was gone, and in its place, an immobile, placid stare under half
closed eyes.
Unquestioned now, Jessie could go.
Transcriber’s Notes
Transcribed from The Touchstone, vol. 8, Oct. 1920, pp. 1-12.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.
The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN OF THEIR RACE ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
