Judith, herself, felt vaguely shamed. The past year, begun with such hopes, such fine purpose—what had it all amounted to—but talk? What had she done? What was she but Good's cheque-book? What would she do were he removed? What was she—herself—alone—?
She was silent at dinner, dimly conscious that the man beside her was talking very earnestly about a certain philosophy of painting. She knew only that what he said was of no interest to her. Somehow, in her awakening conception of the bigness and yet the simplicity of life, and of the part she wanted to play in it, the æsthetic arts seemed irrelevant. She had always been ignorant of painting and music, caring for them only as pretty pictures or melodious diversion. Now, she no longer cared even to pretend that she was not indifferent. Hitherto she had lumped such culture with dress and servants and fine houses—only one among the many "little things." Art had been in no way vital to her: she knew no one, not even the "collectors," to whom it was. Art, to them, as well as to her, was merely one, and a comparatively unimportant one, of the conventions which went to make up the life of the "upper classes." Though she herself owned some of the finest paintings in America, she frankly admitted that they really meant no more to her than the silver plate from which she dined. She smiled as portions of the argot the painter beside her was using, filtered into her consciousness. The poor creature doubtless thought he was flattering her. She wanted to tell him candidly how little his silly chatter interested her. Why did he not tell her something of real value, something which would help her find herself, something which would make her matter in the real world of real things, so that when she was gone there would be a vacancy to fill? Art! She turned away in disgust she could not conceal.
Mrs. Weidely's was a large house, with countless little nooks and crannies where one desirous of solitude might steal away and find it. Mrs. Dodson, Judith suspected, was as bored as she. It was a simple matter to suggest an escape with her into one of these refuges. The older woman was frankly grateful for the idea. When they were seated, with the chatter of the company drifting faintly to them like the far-off rattle of musketry, Judith voiced her problem. Mrs. Dodson heard her to the end in silence, with a faint suggestion of a smile on her finely-cut lips.
"You are just where I was," she said when Judith had finished the recital, "many years ago. Only I was not so conscious of things as you are—and I had not done what you have done."
"You mean—The Dispatch?"
"Yes. That is doing a splendid work—it is waking people up."
"But I haven't done it. It's no credit to me, really."
"I know. But you made it possible. Perhaps you haven't done as much for it as it has done for you. But in either case, much has been accomplished."
"Oh, Mrs. Dodson—if I could only do what you have done—be what you are...." There was no pretence in Judith's admiration as she looked up into the quiet, kindly face of one of the most misunderstood women of her community. It was not a beautiful face. Nature had not been kind to it. But it was a face which, once looked upon, could never afterward be forgotten. It had the beauty which comes of strength and courage and travail, the beauty with which one is never born, but which must be made. It was the face of one who has grasped life firmly with both hands, and through pain and discouragement, has hewn something which must endure always.
Mrs. Dodson was silent at Judith's honest, if girlish, outburst. She smiled sadly, and her eyes clouded.