“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.