Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: THE OLD RAGMAN AND MRS. DEAN.]
THE
UNTEMPERED WIND
BY
JOANNA E. WOOD
NEW YORK
J. SELWIN TAIT AND SONS
65 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY
J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS.
_All Rights Reserved._
THE UNTEMPERED WIND.
CHAPTER I.
----"Consider this,--
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation:"--
It was early spring, the maples were but budding, the birds newly come
and restless, the sky more gray than blue, and the air still sharp with
a tang of frost. Jamestown's streets, however, looked both bright and
busy.
Groups of children went to school, hurrying out to the street, and
looking this way and that for a companion. A mother came to a gate
with a little girl, and pointing now to right, now to left, seemed to
give her directions which way to go. The little girl started bravely.
She wore a pink cap, and carried a new school-bag. "Hurry on!" a girl
called to her, and she advanced uncertainly. A hesitating dignity born
of the new school-bag forbade a decided run; her friend's haste forbade
her to linger. They met and passed on together.
An old man, with ophthalmia, feeling his way with a stick and muttering
to himself with loose lips, went by. Two brothers crossed the street
together, one swinging along easily, smoking a pipe, and carrying an
axe over his shoulder; the other advancing with that spasmodic
appearance of haste which seems the only gait to which crutches can be
compelled.
An alert dog rushed madly up the middle of the street, pausing abruptly
now and then to look round him with sharp interrogation, as if daring
anything to "come on!" His challenge was vain, and he was fain to
solace himself by scattering a convention of sparrows, dashing into the
midst of them and sending the birds up into the maples, followed by
insulting yelps, in reply to which they twittered in derision.
Homer Wilson drove his team of heavy brown horses through the street at
a trot, his sinewy frame clad in weather-beaten blue jeans, his hat
pushed far back on his head, as if to emphasize the defiant breadth of
his forehead.
The woman still strained her eyes after the little girl, now only
distinguishable by the brightness of her cap. They say that mothers
often watch by the gateways of life.
The groceryman passed to open his store--the baker and butcher were
already busy.
Through this scene of busy commonplace interest and bustle passed a
woman, somewhat below the average height, and of strong but symmetrical
build. Her face was down-bent and almost hidden in the depths of a
dark sunbonnet of calico. All that could well be discerned in this
shadow were two soft, sorrowful eyes, pale cheeks, and down-drooped
lips. No one spoke to her, and she addressed no one. She went from
place to place, out of one shop into another, with downcast eyes, and
with something of that swift directness with which a bird, startled
from its nest at evening, darts with folded wings from covert to
covert. She was Myron Holder--a mother, but not a wife.
When under no more sacred canopy than the topaz of a summer sky--with
no other bridal hymn than the choral of the wind among the trees--in
obedience to no law but the voice of nature--and the pleading of loved
lips--with no other security than the unwitnessed oath of a man--a
woman gives herself utterly, then she is doubtless lost. But it must
be remembered that the law she breaks is an artificial law enacted
solely for her protection: and it must be conceded that there may be a
great and self-subversive generosity which permits her to give her all,
assuming bonds of sometimes dreadful weight, whilst the recipient goes
his way unshackled--uncondemned.
There may be nothing to be said in defence of Myron Holder; but there
is much that could be told only with bleeding lips, written only by a
pen dipped in wormwood, of the attitude of her fellows towards her.
The world of to-day sees its Madonna, with haloed head, standing amid
lilies. The world of her day saw neither nimbus nor flowers; they saw
what, to their unbelieving eyes, was but her shame. Let those who jeer
with righteous lips at women such as this poor village outcast,
remember that the meek Maid-Mother whom they adore perchance shrank
before the cruel taunts and pointing fingers of women at the doorways
and the wells.
Myron Holder left the butcher's to go to the grocery store; from thence
she crossed diagonally to Mrs. Warner's, the woman who, half an hour
before, had looked so lingeringly after her child. Myron stood at the
back door waiting, whilst Mrs. Warner came down stairs to answer her
knock. "Mrs. Deans wanted to know if Mrs. Warner would lend her the
quilting-frames." Mrs. Warner would.
Mrs. Warner was a very good woman, therefore she looked unutterable
contempt at Myron Holder, and left her on the doorstep, whilst she
brought out the heavy wooden quilting-frames. Mrs. Warner's husband
drove the mail wagon which made one trip daily to the city and back to
Jamestown. He would in one hour, as his wife very well knew, pass Mrs.
Deans' door, but she did not consider that; and as she had watched her
own child out of sight, so she watched Myron Holder's laden form pass
down the street, out into the country--a large basket in one hand, and
the heavy quilting-frames over her shoulder, pressing sorely upon "the
sacred mother-bosom," already yearning for the easing child lips.
When clear of the village, Myron Holder slackened her pace a little and
setting the basket down for a moment turned back the deep scoop of her
sunbonnet, that the cooling wind might breathe its benison upon her
cheeks, flushed with shame and hot from the exertion of her rapid walk
with her burden. Stooping slowly down sideways, she reached her basket
and taking it up proceeded on her way. Her face shone forth from the
dark folds of her sunbonnet, and seemed by its purity of line and
expression to give the lie to the eyes filmed by acknowledged shame;
only filmed, however, for the eyes themselves held no vile meanings, no
defiant avowal of guilt, no hint of sinful knowledge, no glance of
callous indifference. She walked on steadily, the spongy earth beneath
her feet seeming to breathe forth the essence of spring as it inhaled
the warmth of the sunshine.
[Illustration: SHE PAUSED TO REST.]
Presently the sound of wheels came to her. She strove with her
burdened hand to brush forward the sheltering folds of her sunbonnet,
but in vain, as her haste defeated its object. Her cheeks were
shrouded but in a flaming blush as Homer Wilson drove past. He stared
at her steadily; but she did not raise her eyes, and he passed on. His
springless wagon jolted over all the stones and inequalities of the
country roads; just as Homer Wilson neither brushed aside obstacles nor
skirted them when they opposed his path, but, in his obstinate,
hard-headed way, rode rough-shod over them, feeling, perhaps, the hurt
of their opposition, but never showing that he did.
Again there was silence on the road. It was too early yet for any
insect life, and the sparrows did not fly so far from the houses, but
"Above in the wind was the swallow
Chasing itself at its own wild will."
The flush for a space died out of her cheeks. As she continued on her
way the snake-fence changed to a neat board one, that in turn gave
place to one of ornate wire. In the middle of this was a little gate,
which she passed; then came a wider five-barred gate through which she
entered, and found her way to the rear of a large white frame house,
standing in an old apple orchard.
Her steps were bent to the "cook house," an erection of unplaned pine
boards, where, in summer, the kitchen-work of Mrs. Deans' household was
carried on. Before Myron Holder crossed its threshold, she sent one
long look over to the left, where, leafless yet and gray--save where a
cedar made a sullen blotch of green--the trees of Mr. Deans' woodland
bounded her vision in a semi-circular sweep. As she turned her to the
doorway, a new expression had found place within her eyes--upon her
lips--poignant but indecipherable. For resolution, resignation, and
despair are sometimes so analogous as to be inseparable.