The Untempered Wind

by Joanna E. Wood

The church was filled that evening, and many eyes watched the door eagerly, for the probable appearance of Myron Holder had been a much discussed theme that day. Many of them had missed seeing her the night before, but there certainly was no danger that the like would occur again.

The Reverend Mr. Fletcher entered with his hostess, and, like the clever church diplomat that he was, spoke to the class-leaders and the elect, and smiled benignly but condescendingly upon the lesser lights, and then proceeded, without further parley, to the platform. He was a hard-faced man, with hawk-like features, coarsened by wind and weather; keen, hard eyes, wherein passion had left its light but not its warmth; strong, square jaws, that indicated at once the tenacity and stubbornness of the man. The Reverend Fletcher was indeed a good specimen of the evangelist who goes forth with the Sword of the Smiter rather than the Balm of the Healer. There was no fear of his beguiling any one by false promises of perilous peace.

When he had taken his position behind the reading-desk, he too began to watch the door. From Mrs. Deans' description of Myron Holder he had formed an idea of her appearance. He looked to see some flaunting, rustic beauty, bold of eye, brazen of deportment, gayly dressed perhaps, and defiant of bearing.

It lacked but a moment or two of the time for service when Myron Holder entered the church. She paused a moment in the doorway, looking about her for an inconspicuous seat. There was one but a step from the doorway; she sank into it.

The Reverend Fletcher observed her pale face shine, star-like, for a moment against the darkness of the unlighted porch ere she stepped within the church. He decided instantly that this was indeed one of the elect, and gave no further thought to her. His whole attention was absorbed in looking for the sinner for whose soul he was to do battle. He thirsted for the fray, but the minutes passed and no one else entered, so he took up his discourse, and soon had his congregation in a spiritual tumult. Ejaculations came thick and fast from his hearers, and there were as many weeping women as any preacher could desire; but the heart of the Reverend Fletcher was hot within him against She, the godless one, who sat at home whilst the warnings and threatenings prepared for her were poured into the ears of every one else in the village.

Meantime Myron sat half-dazed. Truly this was another doctrine than the one she had listened to the night before. Where, amid all these words, was the promise of the pitying Christ? She was out and away the moment Mr. Fletcher uttered his last Amen. As he stood mopping the perspiration from his brow she was speeding through the silent street, and by the time the church was empty she had flung herself, sobbing, on her bed.

When the Reverend Mr. Fletcher discovered that, after all, Myron Holder had been in the church, he was decidedly disgusted. He always liked aiming his remarks at some particular person, and always felt as though he were firing blank cartridges when he could not see the target. Therefore he was more than annoyed to find that he had so scattered his fire when he might have taken accurate aim at Myron. He remarked to Mrs. Deans, with some irascibility, that her description of Myron Holder had been somewhat misleading.

"Oh, she's deep," said Mrs. Deans; "and that sly there's no being up to her. Always goin' about as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth; but as for wickedness and genuine, inborn badness! Why, Brother Fletcher, it's my belief and solemn opinion that she was jest makin' a set at Brother Hardman with them eyes of her'n. I'm glad, Brother Fletcher, that Brother Hardman was called away. He was very young, Brother Hardman was—very."

The Reverend Mr. Fletcher, recalling Hardman's words at the depot, decided that Myron was a dangerous creature—a sly serpent, evidently, in a dove's disguise. The Reverend Fletcher girded his loins to the fray, and was fain to look well to his breastplate of righteousness and to give thanks that it had fallen to his fate to emulate Saint Anthony.

Mrs. White and Mrs. Wilson were invited to take tea "along with the minister" next day, and Mrs. Wilson played her role of sorrowing mother to perfection. The two other ladies paid her the delicate compliment of looking fixedly at her for a moment, then shaking their heads lugubriously and exchanging a meaning glance with each other. When the cockles of their hearts were warmed by the Japan tea, they began making allusions to "dispensations," and "afflictions," and "merciful Providences" (terms which in the vocabulary of the sanctified seem to mean the same thing); and Mrs. Wilson began making remarks about "troubles" which were not very intelligible, owing to her beginning them with a sniff and ending in a snivel.