"She would no doubt prefer that you should not."
"Mother, do you suppose she is a good woman?"
"I always suppose every one to be good until I know the contrary."
"But—" with a half laugh, yet still resentfully—"don't we know it? If she were good—Mother, she knows all about my father!" the girl burst out in choked tones.
The mother and daughter did not often allow themselves to talk of the family skeleton which haunted them. They would speak in vague terms of the ever-present necessity to "amuse" and "take care of" the household head; their work in life being to strengthen his resolution, to ward off peril, to aid and abet him in the daily fight. But the dread, always more or less pressing on them, was seldom specifically alluded to. Once in a way, however, the subject would come up; and Mrs. Lucas would not check her child's confidence. She could see now that Emmie's heart was full to overflowing.
"Yes, dear."
"She knows all that so well. Shouldn't you think, if she were a really good woman, she would want to do something to help? She would not leave him alone, to feel dull and miserable, and perhaps to—Mother, she must know how bad that is for him—how much harder it makes it for him to keep on."
"I don't suppose she thinks of the question from his side at all, but only from her own."
"But then it isn't goodness—it's all selfishness."
"There's a good deal of selfishness among people—yes, even people who are more or less 'good.' And most people's 'goodness' is very much alloyed—not pure gold—not even 18-carat gold. Only a little gold, mixed with very inferior metals. I suppose one ought to be glad to find any gold at all, in anybody."