Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 40, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 February 1908 — THAT IDEAL FACE [ARTICLE]

THAT IDEAL FACE

By ROBERT CARLTON BROWN

Had he reached out hlfl hand at that moment he could have touched her. There she stood, plainly outlined before him, and yet Wallace did not reach out and touch her —for just then he woke up. It was with a pang that he realised that it was only a dream —a fancy—that she was not real —that she was not there. \ . v . Slowly he pulled- on his thinking ever of that face, it had been so near tp him. And yet it was but a dream. The realization maddened him, for now he knew that it was the face of his ideal. The face haunted him; he could not get it off his mind. Somewhere, some time, he had looked into those eyes before. But where —where? All during breakfast he thought of it, and now he had suddenly realized that he knew it, that he was familiar with its every feature. But who was she? He was dimly conscious that he saw that face daily. But why—why had he never realized before that this really was his ideal, why had he not thought of it when he had seen her, for surely this was the girl, the only one whom Wallace ever could love? The strangeness of the situation bothered him, to think that he had Been this face daily and never before had realized that she was the one for whom he had searched so long. He blessed the dream which had brought the realization and determination to find her —and win her. Not one face did he miss on his ride to the city that morning. He was certain of finding her somewhere, she was so familiar. And yet, try as hard as he might, he could remember nothing of her except that face, those eyes which he was certain he looked into daily. He did not discover his ideal on the car, but he knew that some time during the day he would confront her. There could be no doubt of that, and as he walked slowly to the office he began building more grand and extravagant air castles than he had-yet allowed himself to Indulge in. During the morning he walked through the several offices where he was In the habit of going; searching always for the ideal that had been revealed to him In the dream, and certain that he would find her. At noon he still was hopeful, and stood on the corner before going to lunch in- the hdpe of Ending that face. “Queer,” he mused to himself. “She must be somewhere. I’ll swear I've seeu ttyat face every day for the last six months. I wonder where she can be?” The whole morning had been wasted in his futile search, so that afternoon he turned resolutely to his work and banished the face—the ideal—for the time being. A stenographer stepped into his office, he looked up eagerly, hoping, ever hoping—but no, it was not she. Somehow the work would not go right, and at three Wallace pushed back his papers peevishly, closed up his desk, and sat dreaming. His eyes roved about the room abstractedly. He left his chair, walked to tho window, stood pensively leaning on his elbow, and looking far out over the with a vacant, lover’s stare. , He could not work, he cohld not be himself, without Tt. Suddenly his eyes started, be pressed his face against the window pane in his excitement, and stared straight ahead of him. Slowly the color left his cheeks, his hands dropped limply to his sides, his head bowed, and a sad look came into his eyes as he passed his cold hand over his feverish forehead. For there, across the street, on a huge signboard, was that face—the ideal face—a fanciful creation of the advertisers’ art, painted in flaring colors, and her eyes—they were looking deep into his as he stood there cursing the dream —the Ideal— that had caused such havoc in his heart