Emmie sighed deeply. "It seems so very very hard," she said. "When he does try so!"
"Men have to pay the penalty for past wrongdoing," Mrs. Lucas went on patiently, as if dissecting the question. "We have to pay it—we with him. Even you, dear. It may seem hard—suffering for what one has not done. Yet that has to be. All wrong that is done, brings evil upon others. It is one of the great mysteries of life. By-and-by, we shall understand better—the reasons, I mean—the why and the wherefore. Perhaps not in this life. We can only see now that it is one of the laws of our being—inevitable, I suppose. If a mother is careless, her child pays the penalty . . . Your father suffers for what his father was.
"He said that once to me. Last year—" in smothered accents. "It frightened me. He said he had inherited the craving. He said it was born in him. Must one inherit such things?"
"One person may, and another may not. And if one does inherit the taste, there is no must be about using it. We have it in our choice whether to use or not to use the things we are born with. It is the same all round. You have inherited two eyes; but whether you use those eyes is at your own option. If you like to bandage them up all your life, you will slay them by disuse."
"Mother, I think that's a lovely idea."
"I have had to work these questions out by myself. If a little child uses his legs, they grow large and strong with exercise; but if you pack them in cotton-wool and never let him stand, they will wither and become useless . . . It is the same with evil things. Suppose you did inherit a taste—that taste—still it could never grow into a craving, except through indulgence . . . I think, perhaps, your father did inherit the inclination—he always says so. But, after all, it might have been nothing. If he had been guarded as a child, and brought up to shun the danger, instead of being incessantly tempted, he might have grown in time as strong as other men to resist. The weakness of will came through long yielding. That has made the struggle so hard."
Emmeline drew another long breath, "Then nobody need be conquered," she said. "Nobody need go down—hopelessly."
"Nobody, Emmie! Never! There is always help to be had—if only one is willing."
Emmeline dashed away one or two tears. "A carriage at the door," she said softly. "And—I do think it is Sir Cyril."
Emmeline's flush and brightness sent a pain to the mother's heart. She could not analyse the causes of her child's pleasure, and it made her fear for the future. Yet what could be said or done? For her husband's sake, she might not check the friendship.