The King of Beaver, and Beaver Lights | Page 8

salutation, and went on by
himself to St. James. She watched his rapid military walk furtively, her
eyebrows crouching, her lips rippling with passionate tremors. Then
she took to flight homeward, her skirts swishing through the woods
with a rush like the wind. The rebound was as violent as the tension
had been.
There were few festivities on Beaver Island, the Mormon families
living a pastoral life, many of them yet taxed by the struggle for
existence. Crops shot up rank and strong in the short Northern summer.
Soft cloud masses sailed over the island, and rain-storms marched
across it with drums of thunder which sent reverberations along the
water world. Or fogs rolled in, muffling and obliterating homesteads.
Emeline stayed in the house, busying herself with the monotonous
duties of the family three days. She was determined never to go into the
woods path again without Roxy. The fourth day a gray fog gave her no
choice but imprisonment. It had the acrid tang of smoke from fires
burning on the mainland. About nightfall the west wind rose and blew
it back, revealing a land mantled with condensed drops.
Emeline put on her hat and shawl to walk around in the twilight. The
other young creatures of the house were glad to be out also, and Roxy
and Roxy's lover talked across the fence. Emeline felt fortified against
the path through the woods at night; yet her feet turned in that direction,
and as certainly as water seeks its level she found herself on the moist
elastic track. Cow-bells on the farm sounded fainter and farther. A
gloom of trees massed around her, and the forest gave up all its
perfume to the dampness.
At every step she meant to turn back, though a recklessness of night
and of meeting the King of Beaver grew upon her. Thus, without any

reasonable excuse for her presence there, she met Mary French.
"Is that you, Miss Cheeseman?" panted the Prophet's youngest wife.
Emeline confessed her identity.
"I was coming for you, but it is fortunate you are so far on the way.
There is a steamboat at the dock, and it will go out in half an hour. I
could not get away sooner to tell you." Mary French breathed heavily
from running. "When the steamboat came in the captain sent for my
husband, as the captains always do. I went with him: he knows how I
dread to have him go alone upon a boat since an attempt was made last
year to kidnap him. But this time there was another reason, for I have
been watching. And sure enough, a young man was on the steamboat
inquiring where he could find you. His name is James Arnold. The
captain asked my husband to direct him to you. You will readily
understand why he did not find you. Come at once!"
"I will not," said Emeline.
"But you wanted me to help you, and I have been trying to do it. We
easily learned by letter from our friends in Detroit who your lover was.
My husband had me do that: he wanted to know. Then without his
knowledge I stooped to write an anonymous letter."
"To James Arnold?"
"Yes."
"About me?"
"About you."
"What did you tell him?"
"I said you were exposed to great danger on Beaver Island, among the
Mormons, and if you had any interested friend it was time for him to
interfere."

"And that brought him here?"
"I am sure it did. He was keenly disappointed at not finding you."
"But why didn't he come to the farm?"
"My husband prevented that. He said you were on Beaver Island three
or four weeks ago, but you were now in the Fairy Isle. It was no lie. He
spoke in parables, but the other heard him literally. We let him inquire
of people in St. James. But no one had seen you since the Saturday you
came to the Tabernacle. So he is going back to Mackinac to seek you.
Your life will be decided in a quarter of an hour. Will you go on that
steamboat?"
"Throw myself on the mercy of a man who dared--dared to break his
engagement, and who ought to be punished and put on probation, and
then refused! No, I cannot!"
"The minutes are slipping away."
"Besides, I have nothing with me but the clothes I have on. And my
uncle's family--think of my uncle's family!"
"You can write to your uncle and have him send your baggage. I dare
not carry any messages. But I thought of what you would need to-night,
and put some things and some money in this satchel. They were mine.
Keep them all."
Emeline took hold of the bag which Mary French shoved in her hand.