It must be said that Sidney was entirely acquiescent to her will. The old weird fables of people hypnotised against their wills have long since been relegated to the limbo of forgotten and discredited myths; and while it is certainly true that each hypnosis leaves the subject more susceptible to hypnotic influence, it is utter rubbish to think that influence can be acquired arbitrarily without the concurrence of the subject. But Sidney had given himself up to the subtle delight of these dreamless slumbers as the hasheesh-eater delivers himself to the intoxication of his drugged dreams.
Sidney’s mind was torn by perpetual self-questionings; not about his own personal salvation, but about his responsibility towards the people of Dole. The more he studied the Bible the more deeply he was impressed by the marvellous beauty of the Christ story. Never surely had man realized more keenly than Sidney did the ineffable pathos and self-sacrifice of the Carpenter of Galilee. Often as he passed the little carpenter-shop where Nathan Peck came twice a week, he entered and stood watching Nathan planing the boards, and as the long wooden ribbons curled off before the steel, and the odour of the wood came to his nostrils, quick with that aroma of the forest which obtains even at the core of the oak, there surged about Sidney’s heart all the emotions of yearning and hope, and sorrow and despair which long, long ago had lifted That Other from a worker in wood to be a Saviour of Souls; and he went forth from the little carpenter-shop as one who has partaken of a sacrament. And often he stood upon the little hill above Dole, his eyes full of tears, remembering that immortal, irrepressible outburst of yearning, “O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings and ye would not!”—the poignancy of this plaint wrung Sidney’s very soul. And how sweet it seemed to Sidney to steal away from all these questions and questionings, to fall asleep with Vashti’s eyes looking, as it seemed to him, deep down into his very soul, seeing the turmoil there and easing it with the balm of her confidence and strength—to awaken with the knowledge that there was something Vashti wished done, something he could do. Thus, whereas the occasions of Sidney’s acute headaches had been formerly the only opportunity Vashti had had of experimenting with this new and wonderful force which she so dimly understood, now it was a daily occurrence for Sidney to cast himself down upon the green leather couch and seek from Vashti the gift of sleep.
Thus, gradually, surely, Vashti won an ascendency over this man which made him in every sense her tool. Happily she did not know the full extent of her power. But if knowledge is power, certainly power brings knowledge, and thus it was that ere long Vashti was turning over in her mind the different ways and manners in which she could apply this power of hers. Thus equipped with her own unfaltering resolution and having the energy of a second person at her command, Vashti brooded over her plans.
The night after Mabella’s visit to Ann Serrup, Lanty was at home, and seated before the open door, was coaxing plaintive melodies from out the old fiddle, which having been regarded as a godless and profane instrument for several generations in his father’s family, had at last fallen upon happy days and into appreciative hands, for Lanty Lansing could bring music out of any instrument, although, of course, he had never been taught a note. The old fiddle under Lanty’s curving bow whispered and yearned and moaned and pleaded—the dusk fell and still he played on and on—till Mabella, having put Dorothy to bed, came out to sit upon the doorstep before his chair, resting her head against his knee. The fiddle was put down. For a little the two sat in silence. Afterwards the scene came back to them and helped them when they had sore need.
“Lanty,” said Mabella, “will you do something for me to-morrow?”
“What is it?”
“Oh, Lanty!” reproachfully.
“Of course I’ll do it; but I can’t, can I, unless I have some slight idea.”
“Well, you are right there,” she said; “I thought you were going to object! Well, you know Ann Serrup?”
“I know her, yes; a precious bad lot she is too!” Lanty’s face clouded.