From having been so much shut up in herself, Beth showed very little of the contrasts of her temperament on the surface,—her joy in life, her moments of exaltation, of devotion, of confidence, of harshness, of tenderness; her awful fits of depression, her doubts, her fears, her self-distrust; her gusts of passion, and the disconnected impulses wedged into the well-disciplined routine of a consistent life, ordered for the most part by principle, reason, and reflection. Few people, meeting her casually, would have suspected any contrasts at all; and even of those who knew her best, only one now and then appreciated the rate at which the busy mind was working, and the changes wrought by the growth which was continually in progress beneath her equable demeanour. Those about her, for want of discernment, expected nothing of her, and suffered shocks of surprise in consequence, which they resented, blaming her for their own defects.
But it was of much more importance to Beth that she should be able to pass on with ease from one thing to another than that she should have the approval of people who would have had her stay where they found her, not for her benefit, but for their own convenience in classifying her. Beth made stepping-stones of her knowledge of other people rather than of her own dead self. She picked to pieces the griefs they brought upon her, dissected them, and moralised upon them; and, in so doing, forgot the personal application. While in the midst of what might have been her own life tragedy, she compared herself with those who had been through theirs and did not seem a bit the worse or the better, which observation stimulated her fortitude; when she contemplated the march of events, that mighty army of atoms, any one of which may be in command of us for a time, none remaining so for ever under healthy conditions, she perceived that life is lived in detail, not in the abstract. The kind of thing that makes the backbone of a three-volume novel, is but a phase or an incident; everything is but an incident with all of us, a heart-break to-day, a recollection to-morrow, a source of encouragement and of inspiration eventually perhaps; the which, if some would remember, there would be less despair and fewer suicides. The recognition of this fact had helped Beth's sense of proportion and was making her philosophical. She believed that life could be lived so as to make the joys as inevitable as the sorrows. We are apt to cultivate our sense of pleasure less than our sense of suffering, by appreciating small pleasures little, while heeding small pains excessively. Beth's deliberate intention, as well as her natural impulse, was to reverse this in her own case as much as possible; she would not let her physical sense of well-being on a fine morning and her intellectual delight in a good mood for work be spoilt because of some trouble of the night before. The trouble she would set aside so that it might not detract from the pleasure.
But fine mornings and good moods for work had not come to her aid since she discovered the mean treachery of Dan and Bertha, and when she left Slane she was still oppressed by the sense of their hypocrisy and deceit. As the train bore her swiftly away from them both, however, her spirits rose. The sun shone, the country looked lovely in its autumn bravery of tint and tone; she felt well, and the contemplation of such people as Dan and Bertha was not elevating; they must out of her mind like any other unholy thought, that she might be worthy to associate with the loyal ladies and noble gentlemen whose hands were outheld to help her. The people we cling to are those with whom we find ourselves most at home. It is not the people who amuse us that we like best, but those who stir our deeper emotions, rouse in us possibilities of generous feeling which lie latent for the most part, and give form to our higher aspirations; and Beth anticipated with a happy heart that it was with such she was bound to abide.
Mrs. Kilroy met her at the station at Morningquest. "What a bonny thing you are!" she exclaimed in her queer abrupt way. "I didn't realise it till I saw you walking up the platform towards me. There's a cart to take your luggage to Ilverthorpe. Do you mind coming to lunch with Mrs. Orton Beg? She has a dear little house in the Close, and we thought you might like to see the Cathedral. Here's the carriage. No, you get in first."
"But does Mrs. Orton Beg want me?" Beth asked when they were seated.
"We all want you," said Mrs. Kilroy, "if you will forgive our first mistake with regard to you, and come out of yourself and be one of us. And you'll be specially fond of Mrs. Orton Beg when you know her, I fancy. She's just sweet! She used to hate our works and ways, and be very conventional; but Edith Beale's marriage opened her eyes. She would never have believed that men countenanced such an iniquity had she not seen it herself. The first effect of the shock was to narrow her judgment and make her severe on men generally; but she will get over that in time. Man, like woman, is too big a subject to generalise about. He has his faults, you know, but he must be educated; that is all he wants. He must be taught to have a better opinion of himself. At present, he wallows because he thinks he can't keep out of the mire; but of course he can when he learns how. He's not a bit worse than woman naturally, only he has a lower opinion of himself, and that keeps him down. With his training we shouldn't be a bit better than he is. In all things that concern men and women, you dear, you will find that, when they start fair, one is not a bit better or worse than the other. Here we are."
Mrs. Orton Beg came into the hall to greet her guest. She was a slender, elegant, middle-aged woman, in graceful black draperies, with hair prematurely grey, and a face that had always been interesting, but never handsome—a refined, intellectual, but not strong face; the face of a patient, self-contained, long-enduring person, of settled purpose, slowly arrived at, and then not easily shaken. She welcomed Beth cordially, and placed her at table so that she might look out at the old grey Cathedral. It was the first time Beth had seen it, and she could have lost herself in the sensation of realising its traditions, its beauty, and its age; but the conversation went on briskly, and she had to take her part. Lady Fulda Guthrie, an aunt of Mrs. Kilroy's, was the only other guest. She was a beautiful saint, with a soul which had already progressed as far as the most spiritual part of Catholicism could take it, and she could get no farther in this incarnation.
"I hope you are prepared to discuss any and every thing, Mrs. Maclure," Mrs. Orton Beg warned Beth; "for that is what you will find yourself called upon to do among us. The peculiarity of man is that he will do the most atrocious things without compunction, but would be shocked if he were called upon to discuss them. Do what you like, is his principle, but don't mention it; people form their opinions in discussion, and opinions are apt to be adverse. Our principle is very much the opposite."
"I have just begun to know the necessity for open discussion," Beth answered tranquilly. "I do not see how we can arrive at happiness in life if we do not try to discover the sources of misery. I know of nothing that earnest men and women should hesitate to discuss openly on proper occasions."
"Oh, I'm thankful to hear you say 'men and women,'" Angelica broke in. "That is the right new spirit! Let us help one another. Any attempt to separate the interests of the sexes, as women here and there, and men generally, would have them separated, is fatal to the welfare of the whole race. The efforts of foolish people to divide the interests of men and women make me writhe—as if we were not utterly bound up in one another, and destined to rise or fall together! But this woman movement is towards the perfecting of life, not towards the disruption of it. I asked a sympathetic woman the other day why she took no part in it, and she answered profoundly, 'Because I am a part of it.' And I am sure she was right. I am sure it is evolutionary. It is an effort of the race to raise itself a step higher in the scale of being. For see what it resolves itself into! Men respond to what women expect of them. When warriors were the women's ideal, men were warriors. When women preferred knights, priests, or troubadours, a man's ambition was to be a knight, priest, or troubadour. When women thought drunkenness fine, men were drunken. Now women want husbands of a nobler nature, strong in all the attributes, moral and physical, of the perfect man, that their children may be noble too, and thus the ascent of man to higher planes of being become assured."