THE GAY GNANI OF GINGALEE OR DISCORDS OF DEVOLUTION A TRAGICAL ENTANGLEMENT OF MODERN…

BY FLORENCE HUNTLEY, Author of “Harmonics of Evolution” and “The Dream Child”

HARMONIC FICTION SERIES VOL. II

CHICAGO INDO-AMERICAN BOOK CO. 1908

Copyright 1908 By FLORENCE HUNTLEY

Published 1908

DEDICATED to Those who are wise enough to be foolish—at intervals

PRELUDE.

Mother Nature contributes the elements and qualities and “temperament” of the individual; and no matter what the education, occupation, position or experience, those native tendencies persist.

One who is born with the disposition for mental frivoling and a keen sense of nonsense discovers that these tendencies persist with far greater tenacity than any impulses of anger or fear or other destructive elements. The writer of this little book has found them subordinate only to the thirst for knowledge and the love of truth.

When the author of this “romance” finally renounced the small gods of her personal ambitions, and surrendered the diverting occupation of newspaper work for serious instruction in the School of Natural Science, she merely restrained but never eliminated that Sense of Nonsense. The native tendency toward intellectual badinage and literary travesty persisted—and even to the present time it furnishes relaxation from the absorbing duties in connection with The Great Work.

Science, if it be Science, must take into account all of the facts of Human Nature; and Philosophy, if it be Philosophy, must include and assign to place every intellectual, native and normal tendency of the Soul.

Science and Philosophy that have no room for the incongruities of life and the frivolings of the intelligence are only partial mentors and masters.

The workshop occupies so much of life, thought and energy, that no one should refuse an occasional hour in the play room.

Confidence in the good sense of the readers of the Harmonic Series forbids the thought that this little satire should be mistaken for a reflection upon the Verities of the School of Natural Science, or that it could be so misinterpreted as to discredit the Harmonic Philosophy.

In so far as it is a travesty it deals, not with the facts of Science and the Truths of Philosophy, but with the people and the things which discredit both.

“The Dream Child” and the first sketch of “Discords of Devolution” were written at the same time and place, but at different desks.

This was done in Washington City, at the time of my separation from newspaper life.

The one stands for that earliest concept and ideal of the Great Law, while the other represents the undertone of nonsense which instruction, experience and self-denials have subdued but never eliminated.

The manuscript of this little volume has been read, from time to time, by friends who have urged its publication. This, however, was never seriously intended until the “Interlude” (Chapter XII.), was contributed by the TK, which interlude gives to the whole a definite meaning and purpose but vaguely suggested by my own work.

Except for this masterly arraignment of The Gay Gnani of Gingalee the author of this tale would have lacked the courage to publish it.

With this addition, however, the writer reconsidered, reread and retouched the Ms., and consented to an Experiment.

With this explanation, excuse and apology for the writing of the romance in the first place, and now for its publication, the author commits it to criticism—with a certain conviction that it has a mission of its own to perform.

Florence Huntley.

INGREDIENTS.

“For what shall it profit a man if he gain a whole Drug Store and jar his Higher Self?”

—Aphorism of the One Hi—.

[Pg 13]

CHAPTER I.

“Philosophers Deride, Fools Investigate.”

PROPHET AND PROFIT.

“But my profession,” pleaded the slim and pallid youth who stood wistfully eyeing the Soda Fountain. “You forget, my friend, that the vows of a Guru forbid such diffusion of force and waste of magnetism as occur in meeting those not of The Path.”

“Tommy-rot!” bawled young Mr. Vanderhook as he continued to polish the already glittering faucet. “You’ve not seen her, and you hear me, there is only one in the box and what’s more she can give cards and spades to any old band of mystical misfits on the top side the Earth.”

“But my profession, William, the obligations of One—Who—Aspires—To—[Pg 14]Know are—are—simply immense, and in my profession—”

“O, hang your profession—a couple of minutes anyway,” interrupted the man at the fountain, “and come along. You’re not going to shake Kankakee till you’ve seen my Very Best—the finest Chicago brand, the highest flyer this side your celestial belt. What d’ye say, and what’ll you have?” and Bill Vanderhook looked anxiously into the other’s face while his hand sought the “sweet cream” spigot.

“And if I consent,” finally murmured the Occultist, now toying mechanically with the long handled spoon, “If I consent,” he repeated in a weird monotone—his eyes following the process of a Lowball—“and look upon WOMAN—should I look upon her you would call your own, remember, Bill, that you assume my responsibility, and that upon your head will rest the consequences of my mad act. Upon you must descend the penalties of my violation of the First Degree.”

“I’ll go you,” recklessly responded the[Pg 15] young druggist, as he shoved the frothing fluid across the marble slab—“only let’s get a move.”

Alonzo Leffingwell’s right hand closed vaguely but firmly upon the handle of the drinking-cup. With an air of utter indifference he poured the questionable compound into his system. Then his left hand sought his vest pocket—tentatively.

The Vanderhook drug store once more stood the treat.

Since infancy these two young men had been inseparable chums. The law of opposites had been satisfied. It had attracted and welded the affections of the stout, stocky, rosy and roystering Bill Vanderhook and the pale, pensive and passive Alonzo Leffingwell.

Bill’s voice in babyhood was loud, resonant and cheerful, while Lonnie’s was low, limpid and languid. In youth Bill’s eyes, big, bold and black, had seemed continually searching for the hidden and forbidden things of fruit closet and melon patch. Contrawise, Lonnie’s orbs, mild, misty and[Pg 16] luminous, seemed forever scanning the unsatisfying deeps of space.

While nature seemed to have constructed Bill Vanderhook for a short-stop or a half-back, it had reserved Alonzo Leffingwell for the higher arts of mystical mysteries.

On attaining his majority Bill consulted with his father and accepted a partnership in the paternal pharmacy. Alonzo consulted with himself, determined upon mysticism and cut loose from parental guidance. Upon this he resigned, as humorist of the Daily Clarion, and set out upon the path of wisdom.

About the same time that Bill turned from bats to bottles and gave up the kicking of balls for the rolling of pills, Alonzo laid down his pen, took up his crystal and immured himself in his bedroom.

Naturally, the exactions of these widely differing occupations tended more and more to separate the two young men.

To Bill Vanderhook it meant an active daily life and a perpetual hustle in holding his father’s trade and reaching out for the[Pg 17] increase. It meant for him a frequent dip in the social swim, and great popularity among those who attended “functions” and presided at Chafing Dishes.

To Alonzo, his decision to become a “Wise Man” cut him out of pretty nearly everything in the town. It meant renunciation of all social and sentimental diversions of Kankakee. While upon the Druggist were fixed the obligations of citizenship which rooted him in his ancestral home, to the Mystic it meant only obscuration and retirement.

While Bill was now joyously “taking stock” and setting up new show cases, Mr. Leffingwell, in obedience to his “Higher Self,” was packing his grip for India.

For he who aspires to the state of Gnanum must seek a more adequate asylum than that of Kankakee.

Alonzo was now well up in Yogum.

He approached Gnanum.

He apprehended the ALL.

Against all this Bill had violently protested. “Cut out this foolishness, and get[Pg 18] the bats out of your belfry. Come,” he implored, “and clerk for me. This is the Leader in Kankakee, and when you learn the business I’ll make you my Pardner. Now what’s the matter with THAT?”

“Pouf! Piff! PELF!”—and Alonzo had shuddered as he thus expressed in a musical crescendo his repulsion for trade. At the mere mention of the Drug Store, or the Stock, this Prophet’s apprentice might have been seen to curl his mustache with disdain.

He was strangely indifferent to the possible profits of the show-case and the soda fountain.

Once he had asked, with something akin to vitality in his tone, “How can you, Bill, consent to spend the whole of your earthly life in the weighing, measuring and compounding of cold, inert forms of matter?”

“And how can you,” Bill had retorted in immeasurable disgust, “how can you consent to spend your life in heathendom, roosting on top of a post for forty years,[Pg 19] till your fingers grow through your fists? And more,” he continued loudly, “I’ll have you remember that these same cold, inert forms of matter stand for big, warm and lively DOLLARS. D’ye hear me, Mr. Dyanzy Chooanzy? While you’re munchin’ raw fodder and meditatin’ in mouldy caves on the manifold mysteries of mankind, I’ll be livin’ up to the Queen’s taste in Kankakee—swell front—mansard roof—stunning wife—bank stock—and—who knows—but the legislature or Congress or even”—and Bill paused modestly before nominating himself to the Presidency.

Alonzo vouchsafed no reply.

He only gazed at his companion with the wide, meaningless smile of one who Knows—he—Knows.

Then, shaking his head with vast, prophetic solemnity, he waved adieu and passed out—in impenetrable silence.

This devotee had learned, as do all those who delight in the name “Mystic,” that nothing is more effective than this vague,[Pg 20] superior silence, when confronted with the crude practicalities of the “Unillumined.”

Then a truce prevailed between these erstwhile comrades until—the ever to be expected—the Unexpected—happened.

[Pg 21]

CHAPTER II.

MISS SHEETS IS SHE.

She was radiantly, ‘wilderingly beautiful.

She was tall and lissom, leopard-jointed and swift.

She was one of those dulcet-toned, tawny peroxides, an houri, for whom the synonym is “havoc.”

Chicago spoke in her every tone and gesture. Her movements were meteoric. Her eyes were X-rays. Her smile was sheet-lightning. She was alert, trim and tailor-made. Her very presence breathed the richness and aroma of her stock-yards training. The Spirit of Chicago, “I WILL,” pulsed through her veins. “Push and Pull” was her motto. “Get there” was her creed.

Whoever is familiar with the fatal fascinations[Pg 22] of a Chicago Typewriter can gauge the gait of the Kankakee pulse when Miss Imogene Silesia Sheets, late of the great packing house of Harmor & Co., was precipitated into the midst of that suburban society.

The advent of this loveliest of her Type was brought about through the courteous solicitations and higher salary offered by Slaughter & Steers, a rival firm of the great hog magnate of Chicago.

From the very multiplicity of her attractions and accomplishments, Miss Sheets was indescribable.

Life in Chicago is of itself an education, and our heroine was rich in the accumulation of her experiences. Her years of service in the greatest pork mart of the world had developed a keen discrimination as to the relative coincidences and differences among hogs and men. She was never deceived as to either. She valued each after his kind, in his own place and for his own proper purposes, as becomes a broadminded woman.

[Pg 23]

Miss Sheets’ accomplishments ranged from office to drawing room. She pounded the typewriter and the piano with equal facility, and it was said that she rendered her stenographic notes in rag-time rhythm.

Within a week of her arrival, Mrs. Astor’s boarding house became a social center, and Mrs. Astor appreciated a guest who at the same time became a social feature and paid in advance.

Before a month had elapsed this artless girl had completely won her hostess’ heart, and as they nibbled nuts and nougats at Imogene’s expense, that unsuspecting lady had disclosed to Miss Sheets about all she knew of the “Eligible List” of Kankakee.

From this time forward, as if by intuition, the lovely Typewriter seemed to know that she preferred Bill Vanderhook’s attentions.

As for Bill, he had been victimized from the start. Three times a day he walked an extra mile to pass her boarding house or place of business. He trod the air. He jollied every customer, and set up the soda[Pg 24] water recklessly. He beamed on the very bottles behind the counter. He racked his brain and rifled his Father’s show-cases to do her homage.

“Be mine, Sweet Thing,” he implored, the third Sunday after their introduction. This he said as they sat in his new, red automobile, four miles from town, while they waited for a gasoline man.

But the maiden demurred. “Oh, Mr. You’ve got sand in your gear box,” she said shyly; then she smiled alluringly and purred softly. The brim of her cartwheel hat grated along his Derby, and they drew as close as fashion permitted.

Still her rosy lips withheld the answer. “Not,” she murmured to her inmost self, “until I know whether there’s an electric cart and a trip to Europe coming along with the big diamond and the sealskins.”

But Bill, stupid after the manner of men, was sorely tried by her evasiveness. He was not a Mind Reader. He just made plain Love, without the modern conveniences.

[Pg 25]

Then came the gasoline man, and it was dark before they started. As both were very hungry, nothing more was said.

Bill Vanderhook looked like a blue print, when he handed her out to Mrs. Astor.

He felt he had lost his opportunity. He feared he had lost the girl.

It was at this critical stage of Cupid’s campaign that our story opens. It was during this momentous interlude that the over-anxious Bill had dragged the reluctant Alonzo, the unwilling Mystic, from his professional seclusion and led him, unprepared, into temptation.

Unconfessed to himself, Bill had a considerable faith in Alonzo’s occult powers. He meant to induce the Guru to aid his suit with the tantalizing Typewriter.

Having finally decided to break his vow, Mr. Leffingwell went out of the drug store, sustained by the lowball and a shadowy hope that he would not be found out. He realized his departure from the fifty-seven Paths, but he did not dream that as yet he had come up to his Karmic Destiny. He[Pg 26] did not suspect that he and Bill were strolling down Asylum Avenue, arm in arm, for the last time.

A little later Alonzo is seated with Bill in Mrs. Astor’s parlor, on the very davenport where Bill had first seen HER. Silently they awaited the appearance of the maiden of whom Bill talked all day, whom he visited every evening, and of whom he dreamed all night.

The face of the Mystic was set and stern. His body was erect and rigid. His gaze was abstracted, cold and indifferent.

To his innermost Inner he was steeled against Woman.

Presently there was a swish and a swirl of nearby silk and heatherbloom, a faint but intoxicating odor of patchouli, and then—and then—a face, a bewildering flash of the rose and the lily, a sunburst of radiant loveliness.

The up-to-date maiden and the up-to-date Mystic stood face to face.

On that instant the tragic entanglement of Mysticism and Materialism, which had[Pg 27] been recorded in the stars, now took on its initial expression.

The effect upon the Occultist was instantaneous and overpowering. On the instant his face, form and expression lost their hauteur, rigidity and disdain. Rising, but unheeding the formal introduction by his proud and awkward chum, Alonzo Leffingwell paled, trembled and swayed. For one unutterable moment he gazed upon that dazzling vision with rapt ecstasy, and then raising his delicate white hand and pointing at random in the air, he shrieked in a loud voice, “Aha!—Ah-ha! ’tis SHE! ’Tis SHE!—MISS SHEETS IS SHE!” and fell in convulsions at the feet of the lovely stranger.

Then Miss Sheets shrieked like it was a mouse, and Bill growled his astonishment.

“Well! wouldn’t that jar you?” cried the girl.

But collecting himself, Bill rather enjoyed the impression his Imogene had made.

“You’ve paralyzed him sure,” he said,[Pg 28] contempt for Alonzo and admiration for the Lady struggling for expression.

“Don’t you think it,” she said gaily, giving her pompadour a twist—“but what are we going to do?”

“Why, I’ll telephone for the auto and rush him around to the drug store. No, not a doctor—I know how to fix him. A good stiff Hi-lowball”—and Bill winked—“will start his vibrations again.”

Then the lovers, momentarily distracted from themselves, resumed where they had left off, and so successfully did Mr. Vanderhook Jr. press his claims that before the auto came smelling around the corner—and while the unconscious Alonzo lay cold and mute—Imogene had received the huge solitaire she had admired so prettily the last time she and Bill passed the Jeweler’s together.

Late that night, when Bill slipped noiselessly out of Mrs. Astor’s parlor, a golden hair was curiously entangled in the coils of his cameo shirt-stud.

And the Recluse, what of him?

[Pg 29]

What of him who had violated the First Degree?

After regaining his equilibrium he withdrew to his father’s house and, locking himself in his apartments, he there remained for one month, during which time he tasted neither food nor drink.

[Pg 30]

CHAPTER III.

IN PRIMORDIAL BIOGEN.

His penance done, the Mystic of Kankakee presented himself once more at the soda fountain. He was paler, slimmer and altogether more effective than before. He was faultlessly groomed in pearl gray. His head was held high—by an immaculate collar. He was shod in patent leathers, and white spats peeped chastely below his upturned trousers. His gloved hand grasped the middle of a large cane for support.

“Do you, William K. Vanderhook, hope or expect to marry Imogene Silesia Sheets?”

Young Mr. Vanderhook, who was replenishing the soda fountain, startled for the moment, dropped a large chunk of ice, thereby overturning several bottles of syrup.

[Pg 31]

“If—So—You—Must—Re—lin—quish—Her.”

“Now, what are you givin’ me?” growled Bill, as he turned upon his chum, and as he did so snapped the cover of the soda fountain with unnecessary violence.

“Merely this,” said Alonzo Leffingwell, slightly raising his monotone,—“You persuaded me to break my vow. You inveigled me into looking upon woman. I had warned you, pleaded with you to let me out of this. You heeded not. I hinted at penalties. You sneered. You did not believe me. You insisted. I yielded. But you have assumed the consequences. You have defied Destiny. But my unsophisticated friend, you have bound yourself to accept the results. You played with Fate. The law is relentless. Rash boy, you have invoked dire karmic consequences.”

“Well, what in the name of—the higher foolology—are you driving at?” snapped Bill, quite out of patience.

“This, my once friend, this”—and Lonnie now well started, talked straight on.[Pg 32] “Through my higher comprehension of primordial principles, and by my occult manipulations of certain astral forces (quite unknown to such as you), I erstwhile learned the most profound fact in nature. I was, as we say in our cult, able to visionize my Soul Mate. The doors of the future, as it were, lifted from their hinges, and—Aha! you start. You tremble. You sense my secret. You perceive the mystical meaning of my metaphysical meanderings.”