Vashti was perfectly content with this, and, whilst she knew all Dole was whispering about her, held upon her way undisturbed. She had developed, to Sidney’s intense joy, a very decided taste in the matter of books. Her mind was precisely of the calibre to take on a quick and brilliant polish. She read assiduously, and her perceptions were wonderfully acute.
Her beginnings in literary appreciation were not those of a weakling. Her mental powers were of such order that from the first she assimilated and digested the strong, rich food of the English classics.
She delighted in verse or prose which depicted the conflict of passion and will, of circumstances and human determination. Alas, her education only made her more determined to gain her purpose, more contemptuous of the obstacles which opposed her.
And yet, if her purpose had not been of the most steadfast, she might well have been discouraged.
Lanty and Mabella seemed so securely happy. Vashti was, however, gaining an ascendency over her husband which almost puzzled herself. She had no comprehension whatever of the nature of the power by which she was enabled to cause a deep mesmeric sleep to fall upon him. Nor did she understand in the least how gradually but surely she was disintegrating his will. When his headaches came on now half a dozen gestures of her waving hands were sufficient to induce the hypnoses which brought him forgetfulness. Ignorant of the potency of suggestion she often stood watching him whilst he slept, feeling within her the striving of her dominant will, as of an imprisoned spirit striving to burst the confining bars.
“Come into the study,” said Sidney, as he reached her side. “I have some very bad news.”
“No, Lanty.” She blanched to the tint of the powdery snow. Together they went to the study, and he told her.
Was the longed-for opportunity to be given into her hands at last?
With all her mental activity she could not yet guess how Lanty’s decadence might yield her the opportunity she craved.
But the position of affairs had seemed so barren of hope for her that any change seemed to make revenge more near.
So the evil in her leaped and strove upward like a flame given fresh fuel and freer air.
The fragrant pink arbutus had replaced the snow-wreaths upon the hillsides, the downy whorls of the first fern fronds were pushing through the dark-brown leaves, the fragile hepaticas had opened their sweet eyes wide, when one morning Sidney took the sloping path which led up the hill overlooking Dole.