“Postpone any city visits indefinitely,” she added as he hesitated. “Why don’t you speak your mind and say that it would be ‘awfully embarrassing’ to take me among your relatives and friends?”
“Cogewea,” exclaimed Densmore in an injured tone, “I am sorry that you entertain such thoughts of me. At the end of two months we could start on a grand tour of all eastern cities.”
“And why not wait till then to be married? Why this hurry?”
“Why do you wish to delay?” he asked, taking her hand. “Are you afraid of me? Do you doubt the sincerity of my word?”
Pausing a moment, Cogewea stopped and picked a handful of the first fallen autumn leaves from the ground. She let them slip through her fingers as she spoke:
“See, Alfred! the leaves have fallen and are returning to dust. The beauty of their present life has passed forever. Youth gone, seared and lifeless, they lay at our feet—lopped and cast down—as a love discarded for another of fairer hue. Having for a time served as a pleasurable bower for the loiterer by the wayside, they are now to be trampled underfoot! like the Indian woman of long ago—when the white man came with his luring voice and weaned her from her people—only to be disdained for a mate of his own kind; abandoned her little half-blood papooses, outcasts and nameless to the world. Yet, still we never seem to understand the Shoyahpee enough to be cautious of him.”
Densmore’s lips grew compressed and a gleam of scorn came into his eyes. He felt bitter resentment but with an effort he suppressed the sarcastic retort already framed. This girl of moods was to be humored, if won to his schemes.
“Cogewea, why do you so seriously and constantly remind me of a possible few questionable deals suffered by your people at the hands of the white man? There are bad individuals among all races, but the things of the past should be forgotten. People change and advance! They are different now and far more cultured than in the days to which you allude. The Indian is civilized and almost on a social and business level with his Caucasian neighbor. Why should I be ashamed to take a girl of pure American blood, a half-blood girl of refined taste and education?”
Cogewea remained silent and abstracted, her gaze fixed on the stream glinting in the sunbeams. Densmore took the other small, brown hand from the log where it was digging into the moss and continued:
“I love you, Cogewea! Why don’t you say something? Do not look so startled! Tell me what is wrong; what is in the way?”
He placed his arm about her and attempted to draw her to him. Repelling this advance, the girl lifted her head proudly and although eyes were brimming with tears, her voice was vibrant with sublimity:
“The wrongs of centuries stand between us! The arrogance of a strong race in its questionable conquest of a weaker, though a heroically patriotic nation, has been all too manifest. This spirit of self-superiority is still with you in your every dealing with us. Go into any reservation or bordering towns, into the so-called courts of justice, and there note the contrast in the treatment accorded individuals of the two peoples. The insult to the ‘white lady’ becomes a joke when applied to the ‘red squaw.’ The ‘white gentleman’ goes free in the commission of an offense for which the ‘red buck’ is sent to the penitentiary.50 Can you show me why an Indian should have faith in the Shoyahpee?”
“You are as much of one race as the other! How can you consistently choose the one over the other?”
“Of the two, I prefer the one of the highest honor, the Indian! But why not stay in my own class, the mixed-blood?”
“I surmised as much!” rejoined the Easterner bitterly. “I can not understand why you hang out with that roughneck Jim, whose only accomplishments are rope-throwing, riding and pistol-shooting. Ill-bred and uneducated he is as far beneath—”
“I would not permit my jealousy to lead me to say ignoble things!” interrupted the girl reproachfully. “It might not be safe!”
“I did not mean to be harsh,” was the cautious retrenchment. “But oh! Cogewea! I love you and why should I not be jealous?”
“Jealousy is not born of love!” was the passionate reply. “It is a child of selfishness and distrust; a reflection on the character of the object of your presumed affections, a declaration on your part that you do not have faith, that you do not trust. Love is confiding, divine and elevating; but like a sensitive plant, it must be cherished. Jealousy is poison! a serpent monster, destructive alike to love, happiness and home. Love can no more survive the blighting breath of jealousy than could Pliny the sulphurous fumes of Vesuvius. You want to get that venom out of your system.”
“It is all very well for you to moralize,” was the half-sullen response, “but you do not know the fires which consume my very soul! If you did, you would be more charitable. Leave off pedantry and tell me that you love me, that you will be mine! I have plenty to keep you in—”
“Do not mention wealth! It weighs naught in the balances of actual love. If I thought you were really sincere—that you would never tire of me, never discard me because of my Indian blood—then I might talk to you differently. I hardly understand why you want to postpone any honeymoon trip.”
“I see that your Indian suspicions must be allayed,” he rejoined with a nervous laugh, “and I will tell you, although I had hoped to keep it from you for a time. I have not the ready cash at present, but expect to be possessed of more than we will need within a very short time. We could then, I
