THE GAY GNANI OF GINGALEE.
These same five years had rolled over the Mansard Roof. The State
Asylum still extended its hospitalities to the irresponsible and
extra-illumined. The Vanderhook Drug Store remained as the LEADER,
with additions and enlargements of stock.
Mr. and Mrs. Wm. K. Vanderhook, Jr., continued as ornaments to
society, whose goings and comings were recorded, not only in the local
Clarion, but in the big Chicago pink and green Sporting Extras
whenever they attended the Horse Show or came in to root for the
Cubs--or entered a fancy cat or dog for the annual “Show.”
To Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhook these had been years of social advancement
and material success. Since his father’s death, the drug business had
prospered in his son’s hands. The young man had also developed
interest in politics and acquired a few ambitions in Kankakee. Our old
friend “Bill” was now “William.” He was more than this. He was known
and referred to as the Honorable Wm. K. Vanderhook; for he had enjoyed
successive honors as Councilman, Mayor, and was now talked of for the
Legislature. It was in view of this that his friends gave him the
complimentary prefix.
He was also Captain of the Home Guard, Chairman of the County
Committee, Secretary of the Y. M. C. A., and President of the Electric
Light Plant.
All this he was, and did, and still umpired at many a ball game, and
judged at all the Baby Shows.
And what of his wife, the adorable Typewriter, who had chosen the
“Mansard Roof” and given notice to Slaughter & Steers on that sunny
June morning five years ago?
She was the same charming and insouciant Imogene, the same dainty and
debonnair creature who had so swiftly captured the town and won for
herself all modern conveniences and many of the luxuries.
She was a light in the first circle of Kankakee. She gave “functions.”
Her “At homes” were highly spoken of. Her Pink Teas and Lavender
Dinners, and red Touring Car and yellow Toy Dogs were the talk of the
town.
With a gentle but firm hand she ruled her husband’s house, and
purse--and himself--when he was not looking.
Near-silks and close-to-Seals and Rhinestones knew her no more. It was
now the Real Thing, and nickle-saving days were past, and the trolley
car and the matinee gallery were forgotten.
But she still remembered Alonzo Leffingwell. She occasionally wondered
if he had forgotten her.
Tonight is the fifth anniversary of their marriage, and Mr. and Mrs.
Vanderhook have entertained a large company.
The best people of Kankakee and some choice friends of Chicago had
gathered under the Mansard Roof. It was a long-remembered festivity.
Society called it a Swell Affair. Imogene had invited them to a
“little informal,” but the Honorable William privately declared it to
be a Blow-Out.
From whichever point of view it was considered it was the climax of
the Vanderhook social successes.
It is long past midnight. Mr. and Mrs. V---- are at last alone. The
fifth anniversary has passed into history. The guests are gone. The
great house is empty. The doors are closed. The burglar alarm is set.
On departing, each guest had rapturously pronounced the whole thing a
success. So did the host and hostess later on--when they had counted
and compared the value of the gifts with the cost of the
entertainment.
When they discovered that the presents would figure up twice over the
cost of the reception, they retired to their sleeping rooms elate with
the consciousness of having discharged many social obligations, and
their duty to themselves.
“You’re a dandy, Genesy, and no mistake,” ejaculated the Mayor, with
admiration. “You were dead right, but I had no idea it would pan out
like this,” and her husband playfully tweaked the golden curl that
fell so prettily over the lady’s brow.
“Gump!” and the lovely Imogene laughed in the same high soprano that
belonged to the “Yards.” She tossed her head, and made a little snatch
at the Mayor.
Then Mr. Vanderhook himself laughed loudly as he dodged the blow, for
he was still holding the golden curl in his hand.
“You’re an It,” and, playfully recapturing her curl and pinning it to
the cushion, Imogene went on with the inventory of the gifts and
criticisms of their guests.
It was not so much what they said, but it was the fond and familiar
tone of their delicate joshing that indicated a still unbroken
confidence between husband and wife.
But strange is the play of fate. Strange indeed, that in the supreme
moments of human pride and vanity and self-satisfaction the “mills of
the gods” begin to get in their work.
Wise the provision of nature which denies us foreknowledge of
tomorrow’s disasters, penalties and retributions.
Tonight had been the proudest of Bill Vanderhook’s life. He had heard
himself and his possessions lauded to the skies. He had heard his wife
called the handsomest and best dressed woman in Kankakee. He had heard
himself praised for his popularity as Mayor, for his ability as
Captain of the Guard, for his cleverness as Chairman of the Committee,
his efficiency in the Y. M. C. A., his judgment in the Electric Light
Company; and besides all this had heard himself referred to as “our
next candidate for Congress.” He had heard his house, his wine, his
wife, commended. He had heard himself toasted as a self-made
gentleman. His cup was full.
And now he is sleeping the sleep of the just. Man-like, he had with
one jerk divested himself of his habiliments and plunging into bed was
fast asleep in the twinkling of an eye.
Not so the fair Imogene. Woman-fashion, she needs must putter about,
making many unnecessary preparations for retirement. She had
unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, unpinned, untied and unlaced. She had
taken off, shaken out, folded, hung up, taken down, picked up, pulled
off and straightened out all the things that a woman gets out of and
gets into between an evening function and breakfast next morning.
And finally, standing before her mirror white-robed and picturesque,
her yellow locks rolled into little wads, her beauty mask in
readiness, her night gloves at hand, she leans toward her own
reflection smiling softly and begins rubbing some creamy stuff into
her complexion.
She was smiling at and enjoying the reflection of the new diamond
ear-rings, Bill’s anniversary gift. She was enjoying them as only a
woman can, in her mirror, when suddenly--she started. She became aware
of a Something Unusual. It was a Presence that--was not Bill. She felt
very cold all at once. She forgot whether she was massaging in the
circular or horizontal. Then she turned hastily and just in time to
witness a very remarkable phenomenon.
Directly before her, clothed like a fashion plate, trim and
debonnaire, hat in hand, and bowing and smiling, stood the man she had
rejected and forgotten years ago.
Imogene Silesia Sheets-Vanderhook stood face to face with the youthful
yoga of Kankakee, the now powerful Gnani of Gingalee.
The lady’s sense of the proprieties was shocked. Her blood ran hot
with anger. Then she remembered for a certainty the fast bolted doors
and the burglar alarm, and then her blood ran cold with fear.
The silver box fell from her hand. She screamed in terror. She sprang
forward, wildly calling for Bill, when--the gentlemanly intruder,
still smiling, still bowing, withdrew as he came--directly through the
panels of the bolted door.
“Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill!”
But Bill had heard nothing. He had schooled himself to noises. Sunday
morning sermons made him drowsy, and he often slept profoundly when
Mrs. V. ragtimed on the piano.
He had not heard that scream of terror. He had not sensed the thing
which had fallen upon his hitherto happy home. It required a vigorous
shaking to arouse him.
But when once awake and listening to his wife’s rehearsal of the
incident, Bill Vanderhook was stirred. He was no longer drowsy. He was
never so wide awake. The Mayor of Kankakee paled and trembled. Memory
was rife. He recalled Alonzo Leffingwell’s departure and the cause.
He remembered his own part in that fatal introduction. He remembered
the mystic’s claim upon Mrs. V. And worse than all, he could not
forget the conditional curse pronounced upon himself.
Bill Vanderhook realized his responsibility. A cold thrill ran
spineward and radiated therefrom. It is said that drowning men pass in
review a whole lifetime. So Bill Vanderhook in that one moment saw as
in a vision his own domestic past. Though the years had but
augmented his own devotion to Imogene Silesia, he had sometimes
fancied that she, since coming into the Presidency of the
Advanced-Thought-Extension Club, had at times appeared indifferent and
distrait. He now recalled with an inward chill the foreboding that she
now rarely came into the Drug Store except for a check, and that she
no longer entered joyously into the yearly replenishing of the
“Stock.”
He remembered further, that on one or two occasions she had spoken as
if she missed something in him. She had once or twice yawned when he
was repeating some very flattering things said about himself in his
several capacities and offices.
A spasm of fear shook the gray matter in the druggist’s head, swept
through the spine and circled round into the Solar Plexus--where
masculine emotions seem to center. He felt very weak all in a minute.
“Imogene, Imogene, where is that Flask? Gimme that--I’ve got a chill;
I might as well try it now.”
The flask, an elegant silver and cut glass affair, had been among the
evening’s gifts. It was presented by the old Base Ball Nine. It was
full when it took its place in line with other cards, but it was
lighter when congratulations were over.
It was empty when the Mayor of Kankakee dropped it on the floor by his
bedside.
Still he was cold, very cold, and still the fatal words “REMEMBER, YOU
ASSUME MY RESPONSIBILITY” rang through the chambers of his memory.
“Shut that window, Genesy dear, the night air gives me a chill. Shut
it tight, no--leave the switch on--I sleep better in the light, and
see here, now, my girl, I don’t want to hear any more about that
mutton-head Leffingwell. You did not see him or any other Spook, and I
don’t want you to let your imagination run away with you.”
Saying which, that gentleman turned his face bravely to the wall
and--pretended to sleep.