The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-10-19

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I sat down, wrote of a few letters. and
then. picking up the first book my hand
came to. L flung myself into an armchair
to wait for him. 1 looked at the book l
had taken up-it was the Academy Notes
idly turning the pages. They didn't look
a particularly interesting collection, but.
stay!-the leaf turned over quickly. Sure
ly there was something familiar in the
pose of that graceful head. 1 scanned the
print eagerly. Yes! it must bet was more
than a passing likeness-the face was ex-
actly like my miniature.
Forgetting all about my appointment
with Charlie lie Mesurier, / dashed down
the club steps, jumped into a hanson, and
was at Burlington House in much less time
than it takes to tell. Room S-there 1t
was, and all doubt ceased, it was the por-
trait Of Janet Fortescue or her double. The
curly chestnut hair was piled UP high on
the beautiful head, In almost exactly the
same way as in the little miniature. the
eyes deep, dark, and softly gray, and the
same sad. thoughtful expression in them.
and the mouth, with its determined lines.
had still the same pathetic droop. But,
then. jane Fortescue must be a very old
woman by this time, 1 reflected, and this
undoubtedly was quite a recent painting
My fingers trembled with excitement as
1 found the number in the catalogue: "Por-
trait of a Lady," by John Jones. Wise in
formation could see that for myself.
'Idiot!" I muttered.
Had I got a clew, and were all my fruit
less efforts to meet with success at last?
The first thing to do was to find out
where the artist lived, and get what in
formation / could out of him. / turned to
the back of the book-Mr. John Jones, 9
st. Johns road. Putney. I told my cabby
to drive there like lightning. At No. 9 1
went VI the steps and rang the bell. A
stolid-looking maid servant came to the
door. In answer to my hurried question If
her master was at home: mo, he was
away in the country, and would not be back
for several weeks" would she give me
his address?' She left me waiting for a
moment, then emerged from one of the
rooms with 1t written down on a slip Of
paper.
1 turned my steps back to the hotel,
where / sat down and wrote to Mr.. Jones.
I told him some Of the story. and begged
him by return Of post to send me the name
and address of the lady. Then all I could
do was to wait for the answer with what
patience I could. The picture occupied my
thoughts; by night I dreamt of it, and
through the day the face haunted me, and
to be haunted is by no means a comfortable
experience for any man.
The next day came, and the next. but no
| answer to my letter, until a week had
| passed, and then I wrote again.
For the fifth time I wendell my way to
| Burlington House and to Room 8, straight
up to the picture-my picture, as I had be-
| gun to think of 1t. I went and gazed at
it as 1 had done many times before. Any
passer-by, who took the trouble to notice,
might have formed the opinion that 1 was
moonstruck or daft. Certainly I resented
every look and exclamation of admiration
and they were many-which the lovely
portrait called forth.
One thing about the picture which had
excited me more than all was that her fin
gers were innocent of rings, except that on
the third finger of her left hand she wore
what looked like an immense ruby.
I stood looking at it-as usual, indulging
I'm the widest day-dreams, but as day.
dreams are quite the most unsatisfactory
things in this prosaic world, 1 knew 1 was
a fool. and, giving myself a shake, I
stepped back. AS I did so I came in con-
tact with a lady.
I was just turning away, after begging
her pardon, when she raised her eyes to
mine! Great Heavens! 1t was the very
same face as that in the picture, and she
was a young woman of about five or six
and twenty. A little smile crept around the
corners Of her pretty mouth as she stood
looking at her own portrait.
I felt myself almost shaking with sup
pressed excitement. What was 1 to do?
Dare I go up and speak to her, and ask
her to listen to me? No! Probably she
would walk away, and take no notice OF
me. I sat down on one Of the lounges In
the middle of the room, and tried to think.
My brain felt in a muddled condition.
Those rubies, I began to imagine, had af-
fected 1t sadly. 1 was simply at my wits
end.
I watched my lady's graceful figure as
she went from picture to picture. She was
exauisitely dressed, and I noticed that
everyone turned to look at her; then she
went on to the next room, / following her
at a respectful distance. and so we went
on, she carefully examining almost every
L plCtQIt. lHcu II LIN hSA
the sculpture. Would she ever finish?
However. my patience gained Its re-
ward when I saw her go through the
turnstiles, down the stairs, and out into
the courtyard. I quickly following her.
Would she call a hanson? No! With her
stately grace-better than any queen-she
walked out into Piccadily and hailed-a
Hammersmith omnibus She got in, and
I jumped in after her. Opposite her I had
a good opportunity of studying her face
Beautiful! This artist had not done heI
justice by any means.
When we came to a certain long road
with tall, ~gloomy-looking houses on either
side, she stopped the omnibus and got out
1 went on for a few yards and then jump.
ed off. and hurried to the corner of the
road, just in time to see her disappearing
into a door some way down-it was No. Is
Then I wondered what I should Go. There
were a few shops at the top of the road
one of these / entered.
'Can you tell me who lives at No. 1872
'"Thirteen's a boarding house." was the
~laconic answer from the green grocer
woman.
rs it a large boarding establishment, and
who keeps it?"