“I wouldn’t,” was all the answer the young man made; but he put a strong stress upon the last word.
“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” answered the girl, treating his response as quite a matter of course. “But you see now why a woman must keep silent where a man should speak out. If a man tells the truth he can be called to account for it; so if he is manly he will tell it and take the consequences. But a woman has to remember that if she tells the truth, and the truth happens to be ugly, some man must be shot at for her words.”
“Dorothy,” asked Arthur, with unusual seriousness, “are you afraid of anything?”
“Afraid? No. Of course not.”
“If you were needed very badly for the sake of other people—even negroes—if you could save their lives and ease their sufferings, you’d want to do it, wouldn’t you?”
“Why, of course, Cousin Arthur. I’ve read in Aunt Polly’s old newspapers, how you went to Norfolk in the yellow fever time, and how bravely you—never mind. I’ve read all about that, over and over again, and it’s part of what makes me like you.”
“But courage is not expected of women.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” quickly responded the girl. “Not the courage of fighting, of course—but that’s only because men won’t fight with women, except in mean ways. Women are expected to show courage in other ways, and they do it too. In the newspapers that tell about your heroism at Norfolk, there is a story of how one of your nurses went always to the most dangerous cases, and how, when she died, you officiated at her funeral, instead of the clergyman who had got scared and run away like a coward that did not trust his God. I remember what the newspaper says that you said at the grave, Cousin Arthur. I’ve got it all by heart. You said, at the end of your address:—‘We are accustomed to pay honor and to set up monuments to men who have dared, where daring offered its rich reward of fame and glory. Let us reverently bow our heads and abase our feeble, selfish souls, in presence of the courage of this frail woman, who, in her weakness, has achieved greater things in the sight of God than any that the valor and strength of man have ever accomplished since the foundations of the world were laid. Let us reverently and lovingly make obeisance to the courage of a devoted woman—a courage that we men can never hope to match.’ You see I remember all that you said then, Cousin Arthur, and so you needn’t tell me now that you do not expect courage at the hands of women.”
Arthur made no immediate reply, and the two rode on in silence for a time. After a while, as they neared the house gates, he spoke.
“Dorothy,” he said, “I need your help very badly. You cannot render me the help I want without very serious danger to yourself. So I don’t want you to give me any answer to what I am about to say until tomorrow. I want you to think the matter over very carefully first.”