"And then—when it comes—it will be reform?" She wondered why the implication was so distasteful.
"Yes, my dear. You have too much to be a revolutionary. You remember the story of the Rich Young Man. It was always so. He was asked to give up everything. He could not. I could not. You cannot. You may give more than I—in some ways you already have. But you will not give all. You will always be a—"
"—reformer," interrupted Judith bitterly.
"Yes," continued Mrs. Dodson, gently, "only a reformer. Your influence will die with you. You will pass very little on. The radicals will hate and ridicule you. Even those you help will distrust you. And what is worse—you will some day come to distrust them."
"Then why go forward?" cried Judith. "Why not stay where I am and be comfortable?"
Mrs. Dodson smiled wisely. "Because you can't. I remember hearing a gushing young thing ask a great novelist if he didn't just love to write. His reply was, 'I loathe it.' When she looked her amazement—as we all did—he added, 'I'm miserable when I write, but I'm more miserable when I don't.' We thought he was just posing, but I know now what he meant. I understand perfectly. I loathe the wretched futility of the work I do, with its everlasting cowardice and compromise. I wish I could go back to the life for which I was born and bred, which even those dearest to me, lead now. But I can't do that. Life as it is, is unsatisfying. But any other would be worse."
"Why, I always thought you so happy—one of the happiest women I knew," cried Judith in amazement.
"Oh, well—" Mrs. Dodson's sigh defied analysis. "Such things are relative." She was silent for a moment. Then her voice reverted to its tone of business. "But come—that's enough philosophy. If you talk too much it interferes with doing. Now, if you care to come, I'll have you to lunch with me to-morrow. I'll have some work waiting for you. And when that is finished, there will be more to follow. Will you come?"
Judith looked into the kindly grey eyes, so plainly studying her, and was ashamed of the reluctance and disappointment she felt. She nodded her head affirmatively. Was life always a compromise like this? Must noble aspirations forever fade away in the cold light of fact? The older woman seemed to sense her thought, for she smiled and patted her shoulder gently.
"My dear little girl—I understand. And so will you—when you find yourself. The world's made up of doers and dreamers. The doers dream a little and the dreamers do a little—it is not given to many to be both. Dream a little, always, my dear, for the good of your soul. And listen always to the dreamers, even when their dreams seem nonsense. But you mustn't be sad because you are only an agent. We are not less human because we are not gods. We have our place in the scheme of things: we must fill it—awkwardly, incompletely, stupidly—still, as best we may."