Part 23 (1/2)

”That was wise,” said Unorna, still pale. ”How came we to be so imprudent! One word, and he might have suspected--”

”He could not have suspected all,” answered Keyork. ”No man could suspect that.”

”Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly--justifiable.”

”Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to meet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws the line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and the extremity to which we have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurable distance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no one could prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of the princ.i.p.al witnesses.”

”I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble,” said Unorna.

”Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did.”

”And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is all right? Is there no danger of his suspecting anything?”

It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the recollection. Keyork's rolling laughter reverberated among the plants and filled the whole wide hall with echoes.

”No danger there,” he answered. ”Your witchcraft is above criticism.

Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed.”

”Except against you,” said Unorna, thoughtfully.

”Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of the kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?”

”And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a supernatural being.”

”That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word supernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive each other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into believing almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft of yours but a very powerful moral influence at work--I mean apart from the mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of common somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest, this hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others' wills, is a moral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mental suggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced is himself a natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth taking into consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised by means of your words and through the impression of power which you know how to convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the very definition puts me beyond your power.”

”Why?”

”Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a human being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individuality which I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his own independence--let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by any accident whatsoever--and he is at your mercy.”

”And you are sure that no accident could shake your faith in yourself?”

”My consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dear Unorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, for I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I have never succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery staircase may be quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid--or an unrequited pa.s.sion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I did not, and if you had any object in getting me under your influence, you would succeed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant when I will voluntarily sleep under your hand.”

Unorna glanced quickly at him.

”And in that case,” he added, ”I am sure you could make me believe anything you pleased.”

”What are you trying to make me understand?” she asked, suspiciously, for he had never before spoken of such a possibility.

”You look anxious and weary,” he said in a tone of sympathy in which Unorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fancied from his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which he could not say. ”You look tired,” he continued, ”though it is becoming to your beauty to be pale--I always said so. I will not weary you. I was only going to say that if I were under your influence--you might easily make me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman--for the rest of my life.”

They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. Then Unorna seemed to understand what he meant.

”Do you really believe that is possible?” she asked earnestly.

”I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well.”

”Perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully. ”Let us go and look at him.”