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.