The King of Beaver, and Beaver Lights | Page 6

to stay with her, but she rejected companionship, promising her
uncle and aunts to lock herself within the cabin and hide if she saw men
approaching from any direction. The day was sultry for that climate,
and of a vivid clearness, and the sky dazzled. Emeline had never met
any terrifying Gentiles during her stay on the island, and she felt quite
secure in crossing the pasture and taking to the farm woods beyond.

Her uncle's cows had worn a path which descended to a run with
partially grass-lined channel. Beaver Island was full of brooks and
springs. The children had placed stepping-stones across this one. She
was vaguely happy, seeing the water swirl below her feet, hearing the
cattle breathe at their grazing; though in the path or on the log which
she found at the edge of the woods her face kept turning towards the
town of St. James, as the faces of the faithful turn towards Mecca. It
was childish to think of escaping the King of Beaver by merely staying
away from his exhortations. Emeline knew she was only parleying.
The green silence should have helped her to think, but she found herself
waiting--and doing nothing but waiting--for what might happen next.
She likened herself to a hunted rabbit palpitating in cover, unable to
reach any place of safety yet grateful for a moment's breathing. Wheels
rolled southward along the Galilee road. Meeting was out. She had the
caprice to remain where she was when the family wagon arrived, for it
had been too warm to walk to the Tabernacle. Roxy's voice called her,
and as she answered, Roxy skipped across the brook and ran to her.
"Cousin Emeline," the breathless girl announced, "here comes Mary
French to see you!"
Emeline stiffened upon the log.
"Where?"
Roxy glanced behind at a figure following her across the meadow.
"What does she want of me?" inquired Emeline. "If she came home
with the family, it was not necessary to call me."
"She drove by herself. She says Brother Strang sent her to you."
Emeline stood up as the Prophet's youngest wife entered that leafy
silence. Roxy, forgetting that these two had never met before, slipped
away and left them. They looked at each other.
"How do you do, Mrs. Strang?" spoke Emeline.

"How do you do, Miss Cheeseman?" spoke Mary French.
"Will you sit down on this log?"
"Thank you."
Mary French had more flesh and blood than Emeline. She was larger
and of a warmer and browner tint--that type of brunette with startling
black hair which breaks into a floss of little curls, and with unexpected
blue eyes. Her full lips made a bud, and it only half bloomed when she
smiled. From crown to slipper she was a ripe and supple woman.
Though clad, like Emeline, in black, her garment was a transparent
texture over white, and she held a parasol with crimson lining behind
her head. She had left her bonnet in her conveyance.
"My husband," said Mary French, quiet and smiling, "sent me to tell
you that you will be welcomed into our family."
Emeline looked her in the eyes. The Prophet's wife had the most
unblenching smiling gaze she had ever encountered.
"I do not wish to enter your family. I am not a Mormon."
"He will make you wish it. I was not a Mormon."
They sat silent, the trees stirring around them.
"I do not understand it," said Emeline. "How can you come to me with
such a message?"
"I can do it as you can do it when your turn comes."
Emeline looked at Mary French as if she had been stabbed.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" said Mary French. "But wait till he seems to you a
great strong archangel--an archangel with only the weakness of
dabbling his wings in the dirt--and you will withhold from him nothing,
no one, that may be of use to him. If he wants to put me by for a while,
it is his will. You cannot take my place. I cannot fill yours."

"Oh, don't!" gasped Emeline. "I am not that sort of woman--I should
kill!"
"That is because you have not lived with him. I would rather have him
make me suffer than not have him at all."
"Oh, don't! I can't bear it! Help me!" prayed Emeline, stretching her
hands to the wife.
Mary French met her with one hand and the unflinching smile. Her
flesh was firm and warm, while Emeline's was cold and quivering.
"You have never loved anybody, have you?"
"No."
"But you have thought you did?"
"I was engaged before I came here."
"And the engagement is broken?"
"We quarrelled."
Mary French breathed deeply.
"You will forget it here. He can draw the very soul out of your body."
"He