Even then the lady's sweet reasonableness did not desert her. She smiled winningly, displaying two small and even rows of teeth.
"On principle, my dear. For one reason, because I have such sympathy with women who toil, and for another, I believe the time has come when women must no longer be slaves, they must assert themselves, become individuals, independent."
"But you?" exclaimed Janet.
Mrs. Brocklehurst continued to smile encouragingly, and murmured "Yes?"
"You are not a slave."
A delicate pink, like the inside of a conch shell, spread over Mrs.
Brocklehurst's cheeks.
"We're all slaves," she declared with a touch of passion. "It's hard for you to realize, I know, about those of us who seem more fortunate than our sisters. But it's true. The men give us jewels and automobiles and clothes, but they refuse to give us what every real woman craves--liberty."
Janet had become genuinely interested.
"But what kind of liberty?"
"Liberty to have a voice, to take part in the government of our country, to help make the laws, especially those concerning working-women and children, what they ought to be."
Here was altruism, truly! Here were words that should have inspired Janet, yet she was silent. Mrs. Brocklehurst gazed at her solicitously.
"What are you thinking?" she urged--and it was Janet's turn to flush.
"I was just thinking that you seemed to have everything life has to give, and yet--and yet you're not happy."
"Oh, I'm not unhappy," protested the lady. "Why do you say that?"
"I don't know. You, too, seem to be wanting something."
"I want to be of use, to count," said Mrs. Brocklehurst,--and Janet was startled to hear from this woman's lips the very echo of her own desires.
Mrs. Brocklehurst's feelings had become slightly complicated. It is perhaps too much to say that her complacency was shaken. She was, withal, a person of resolution--of resolution taking the form of unswerving faith in herself, a faith persisting even when she was being carried beyond her depth. She had the kind of pertinacity that sever admits being out of depth, the happy buoyancy that does not require to feel the bottom under one's feet. She floated in swift currents. When life became uncomfortable, she evaded it easily; and she evaded it now, as she gazed at the calm but intent face of the girl in front of her, by a characteristic inner refusal to admit that she had accidentally come in contact with something baking. Therefore she broke the silence.
"Isn't that what you want--you who are striking?" she asked.
"I think we want the things that you've got," said Janet. A phrase one of the orators had used came into her mind, "Enough money to live up to American standards"--but she did not repeat it. "Enough money to be free, to enjoy life, to have some leisure and amusement and luxury." The last three she took from the orator's mouth.
"But surely," exclaimed Mrs. Brocklehurst, "surely you want more than that!"
Janet shook her head.
"You asked me what we believed, the I.W.W., the syndicalists, and I told you you wouldn't like it. Well, we believe in doing away with you, the rich, and taking all you have for ourselves, the workers, the producers.
We believe you haven't any right to what you've got, that you've fooled and cheated us out of it. That's why we women don't care much about the vote, I suppose, though I never thought of it. We mean to go on striking until we've got all that you've got."
"But what will become of us?" said Mrs. Brocklehurst. "You wouldn't do away with all of us.! I admit there are many who don't--but some do sympathize with you, will help you get what you want, help you, perhaps, to see things more clearly, to go about it less--ruthlessly."
"I've told you what we believe," repeated Janet.
"I'm so glad I came," cried Mrs. Brocklehurst. "It's most interesting!
I never knew what the syndicalists believed. Why, it's like the French Revolution--only worse. How are you going to get rid of us? cut our heads off?"
Janet could not refrain from smiling.
"Let you starve, I suppose."
"Really!" said Mrs. Brocklehurst, and appeared to be trying to visualize the process. She was a true Athenian, she had discovered some new thing, she valued discoveries more than all else in life, she collected them, though she never used them save to discuss them with intellectuals at her dinner parties. "Now you must let me come to Headquarters and get a glimpse of some of the leaders--of Antonelli, and I'm told there's a fascinating man named Rowe."
"Rolfe," Janet corrected.
"Rolfe--that's it." She glanced down at the diminutive watch, set with diamonds, on her wrist, rose and addressed Insall. "Oh dear, I must be going, I'm to lunch with Nina Carfax at one, and she's promised to tell me a lot of things. She's writing an article for Craven's Weekly all about the strike and the suffering and injustice--she says it's been horribly misrepresented to the public, the mill owners have had it all their own way. I think what you're doing is splendid, Brooks, only--" here she gave him an appealing, rather commiserating look--"only I do wish you would take more interest in--in underlying principles."
Insall smiled.
"It's a question of brains. You have to have brains to be a sociologist," he answered, as he held up for her the fur coat. With a gesture of gentle reproof she slipped into it, and turned to Janet.
"You must let me see more of you, my dear," she said. "I'm at the best hotel, I can't remember the name, they're all so horrible--but I'll be here until to-morrow afternoon. I want to find out everything. Come and call on me. You're quite the most interesting person I've met for a long time--I don't think you realize how interesting you are. Au revoir!"
She did not seem to expect any reply, taking acquiescence for granted.
Glancing once more at the rows of children, who had devoured their meal in an almost uncanny silence, she exclaimed, "The dears! I'm going to send you a cheque, Brooks, even if you have been horrid to me--you always are."
