The sharp, bright eyes of the Typewriter opened with astonishment. It was the lady’s turn to look bewildered. She gazed blankly at the smitten Seer who had already dropped on one knee. She gazed upon him in wonderment. It was the look of mingled awe and admiration a child bestows upon a circus Poster.
“I—I—don’t catch on,” she said simply. The rapt lover smiled. It was a pale, luminous ripple of compassion. He lifted himself to the perpendicular—drawing still closer. He gazed upon her. He seemed almost ready to take her hand.
“Most perfect of mortals,” he began. “Let me explain:
“As you may have heard, I am under orders for Gnaniship. To accomplish this I must soon go from the sophomore grade of Illinois to the senior course in far off Hindustan. In the line of my profession I come to know pretty much everything. I am as familiar with the IS, as with the APPARENT. The NOTHINGNESS of the IS NOT I have demonstrated several times. The oneness of UNITY and the ISNESS of BEING I have already mastered. And by a patient pursuit of the WHITHER and WHENCE, I have anticipated my contemporaries by thousands of years. I have distanced posterity by many a lap.”
The Mystic paused to note the impression he was making. Then he went on;—“Through the esoteric fundaments of nature and through certain occult experiments in primordial polarity, I was enabled to apprehend, to comprehend, to cognize the great law of affinity. I discovered that somewhere there was a ONE, a particular ONE, a dear, sweet, beautiful SHE to whom I was bound in protoplasmic energies and biological consequences.
“And there came a time when she whom I sought was visioned in the astral light. I saw her—SHE—that one, essential, correlated SHE,—SHE that was my other half—that satisfying SHE—that only SHE—was none other than your own sweet self, Miss Sheets.
“Nay, do not interrupt me. It was not until you realized in material substance this ethereal vision that I had, as it were, solved the problem. I had proved the law. Though as yet far beneath MYSELF in physical refinement, mental acquirements and spiritual illumination, I am yet resolved to accept you as my own and wait until you do attain. I am patient. I can and will wait until you have been instructed in the Path of Yog, and attain to ME. And now, my own, speak to me. Express your joy. Speak, ah, speak!”
Mr. Leffingwell paused. There was something almost akin to human desire in his voice, but there was no reply. Miss Sheets was silent. She seemed to be only half listening. In her eyes was now that far-offness, so habitual to mystics, gnanis and gurus. It was now the lady who was abstracted. Her glance traveled down and backward along the avenue. She was looking in the direction of the drug store.
“Hear me again, fair one”—whispered the occultist. “I am yours only. You are mine only. I co-ordinate with you, not as Bill does on the earth plane. Mine is a love not desecrated by thoughts of diamond rings, sealskin sacques, oyster suppers, pink candies and frozen mushes. Mine is the primordial passion that vibrates in the etheric spaces of the universe. It is a passion which scorns material bribes. Mine is a devotion that looks only to soul communion, and the solemn absorption of OURSELF back into Nirvanic nothingness. The hour is come and now is. Imogene, my onliest, sweet bird of paradise, it is your mate who calls. Come, O come, this day, this hour, and we will fly-by-night to Hindustan.”
Miss Sheets started—but not to Hindustan. She was roused from her reverie of drugs, drug stores and druggists. She had but mistily sensed the monologue of the Mystic. But the last proposition penetrated her inner consciousness. His reference to birds had recalled her to herself, for she was a member of the Audubon Society and quite up on birds. She now realized that she had been indifferent and almost rude to one whom Kankakee regarded as harmless.