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, thebirds newly come and restless, the sky more gray thanblue, 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 thestreet, and looking this way and that for a companion. Amother came to a gate with a little girl, and pointing nowto right, now to left, seemed to give her directions whichway to go. The little girl started bravely. She wore apink cap, and carried a new school-bag. "Hurry on!" agirl called to her, and she advanced uncertainly. Ahesitating dignity born of the new school-bag forbade a decidedrun; her friend's haste forbade her to linger. They metand passed on together.
An old man, with ophthalmia, feeling his way with astick and muttering to himself with loose lips, went by.Two brothers crossed the street together, one swingingalong easily, smoking a pipe, and carrying an axe over hisshoulder; the other advancing with that spasmodic appearanceof haste which seems the only gait to which crutchescan be compelled.
An alert dog rushed madly up the middle of the street,pausing abruptly now and then to look round him withsharp interrogation, as if daring anything to "come on!" Hischallenge was vain, and he was fain to solace himselfby scattering a convention of sparrows, dashing into themidst of them and sending the birds up into the maples,followed by insulting yelps, in reply to which theytwittered in derision.
Homer Wilson drove his team of heavy brown horsesthrough the street at a trot, his sinewy frame clad inweather-beaten blue jeans, his hat pushed far back on hishead, as if to emphasize the defiant breadth of hisforehead.
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 andbutcher were already busy.
Through this scene of busy commonplace interest andbustle passed a woman, somewhat below the average height,and of strong but symmetrical build. Her face was down-bentand almost hidden in the depths of a dark sunbonnetof calico. All that could well be discerned in this shadowwere two soft, sorrowful eyes, pale cheeks, anddown-drooped lips. No one spoke to her, and she addressed noone. She went from place to place, out of one shop intoanother, with downcast eyes, and with something of thatswift directness with which a bird, startled from its nest atevening, 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 asummer sky—with no other bridal hymn than the choralof the wind among the trees—in obedience to no law butthe voice of nature—and the pleading of loved lips—withn