The King of Beaver smiled, seeing betrayed in her face the very vertigo of joy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: You will give yourself to me now 142]

"You will give yourself to me now?" he winningly begged, venturing out-stretched hands. "You have felt the need as I have? Do you think the days have been easy to me? When you were on your knees I was on my knees too. Every day you came in this direction I came as far as I dared, to meet you. Are the obstacles all pa.s.sed?"

"No," said Emeline.

He was making her ask herself that most insidious question, "Why could not the other have been like this?"

"Tell me--can you say, 'I hate you,' now?"

"No," said Emeline.

"I have grown to be a better man since you said you hated me. The miracle cannot be forced. Next time?" He spoke wistfully.

"No," Emeline answered, holding to the bush. She kept her eyes on the ground while he talked, and glanced up when she replied. He stood with his hat off. The flakes of sun touched his head and the fair skin of his forehead.

He moved towards Emeline, and she retreated around the bush. Without hesitating he pa.s.sed, making a salutation, and went on by himself to St. James. She watched his rapid military walk furtively, her eyebrows crouching, her lips rippling with pa.s.sionate 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 ma.s.ses 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, m.u.f.fling 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 ma.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty.

"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 Sat.u.r.day 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. Their faces were indistinct to each other.

"For the first time in my life I have deceived my husband!"

"Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?" cried the girl.

A steamer whistle at St. James dock sent its bellow rebounding from tree to tree in the woods. Emeline seized Mary French and kissed her violently on both cheeks. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag and flew towards St.

James.

"Stop!" commanded the Prophet's wife.

She ran in pursuit, catching Emeline by the shoulders.

"You sha'n't go! What am I doing? Maybe robbing him of what is necessary to his highest success! I am a fool--to think he might turn back to me for consolation when you are gone--G.o.d forgive me such silly fondness!

I can't have a secret between him and myself--I will tell him! You shall not go--and cause him a mortal hurt! Wait!--stop!--the boat is gone!

It's too late!"

"Let me loose!" struggled Emeline, wrenching herself away.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Let me loose! 148]

She ran on through the woods, and Mary French, s.n.a.t.c.hing at garments which eluded her, stumbled and fell on the damp path, gathering dead leaves under her palms. The steamer's prolonged bellow covered her voice.

Candles were lighted in St. James. The Tabernacle spread itself like a great circular web dark with moisture. Emeline was conscious of running across the gang-plank as a sailor stooped to draw it in. The bell was ringing and the boat was already in motion. It sidled and backed away from its moorings.

Emeline knelt panting at the rail on the forward deck. A flambeau fastened to the wharf bowed its light to the wind as the boat swung about, showing the King of Beaver smiling and waving his hand in farewell. He did not see Emeline. His farewell was for the man whom he had sent away without her. His golden hair and beard and blue eyes floated into Emeline's past as the steamer receded, the powerful face and lithe figure first losing their ident.i.ty, and then merging into night. What if it was true that she was robbing both him and herself of the best life, as Mary French was smitten to believe at the last moment?

Her Gentile gorge rose against him, and the traditions of a thousand years warred in her with nature; yet she stretched her hands towards him in the darkness.