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The Arcadia Mixture Again
One day, some weeks after we left Scrymgeour's house-boa...

Tobacco Triumphant: Smoking Fashionable And Universal
Tobacco engages Both sexes, all ages, The poo...

How Heroes Smoke
On a tiger-skin from the ice-clad regions of the sunless no...

The Murder In The Inn
Sometimes I think it is all a dream, and that I did not rea...

Page Six |
stimulus. Alcohol, ever true to its companion, steps in and su...

A Covnter-blaste To Tobacco
That the manifolde abuses of this vile custome of _Tobacco_...

When My Wife Is Asleep And All The House Is Still
Perhaps the heading of this paper will deceive some read...

Man Know Thy-self
...

Marriot
I have hinted that Marriot was our sentimental member. H...

The Perils Of Not Smoking
When the Arcadians heard that I had signed an agreement ...

The Romance Of A Pipe-cleaner
We continued to visit the _Arcadia_, though only one at ...


...

Not The Arcadia
Those who do not know the Arcadia may have a mixture tha...

Jimmy's Dream
I see before me (said Jimmy, savagely) a court, where I, Ja...

My Tobacco-pouch
I once knew a lady who said of her husband that he looke...

Smoking In Church
For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do anything but die. ...

Scrymgeour
Scrymgeour was an artist and a man of means, so proud of hi...

Arcadians At Bay
I have said that Jimmy spent much of his time in contributi...

Gilray's Dream
Conceive me (said Gilray, with glowing face) invited to wri...

Smoking In The Twentieth Century
Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet, when they've cle...



A Face That Haunted Marriot








This is not a love affair, Marriot shouted, apologetically.

He had sat the others out again, but when I saw his intention I escaped
into my bedroom, and now refused to come out.

Look here, he cried, changing his tone, if you don't come out I'll
tell you all about it through the keyhole. It is the most extraordinary
story, and I can't keep it to myself. On my word of honor it isn't a
love affair--at least not exactly.

I let him talk after I had gone to bed.

You must know, he said, dropping cigarette ashes onto my pillow every
minute, that some time ago I fell in with Jack Goring's father, Colonel
Goring. Jack and I had been David and Jonathan at Cambridge, and though
we had not met for years, I looked forward with pleasure to meeting him
again. He was a widower, and his father and he kept joint house. But the
house was dreary now, for the colonel was alone in it. Jack was off on
a scientific expedition to the Pacific; all the girls had been married
for years. After dinner my host and I had rather a dull hour in the
smoking-room. I could not believe that Jack had grown very stout. 'I'll
show you his photograph,' said the colonel. An album was brought down
from a dusty shelf, and then I had to admit that my old friend had
become positively corpulent. But it is not Jack I want to speak about.
I turned listlessly over the pages of the album, stopping suddenly at
the face of a beautiful girl. You are not asleep, are you?

I am not naturally sentimental, as you know, and even now I am not
prepared to admit that I fell in love with this face. It was not, I
think, that kind of attraction. Possibly I should have passed the
photograph by had it not suggested old times to me--old times with a
veil over them, for I could not identify the face. That I had at some
period of my life known the original I felt certain, but I tapped my
memory in vain. The lady was a lovely blonde, with a profusion of fair
hair, and delicate features that were Roman when they were not Greek.
To describe a beautiful woman is altogether beyond me. No doubt this
face had faults. I fancy, for instance, that there was little character
in the chin, and that the eyes were 'melting' rather than expressive.
It was a vignette, the hands being clasped rather fancifully at the back
of the head. My fingers drummed on the album as I sat there pondering;
but when or where I had met the original I could not decide. The colonel
could give me no information. The album was Jack's, he said, and
probably had not been opened for years. The photograph, too, was an
old one; he was sure it had been in the house long before his son's
marriage, so that (and here the hard-hearted old gentleman chuckled) it
could no longer be like the original. As he seemed inclined to become
witty at my expense, I closed the album, and soon afterward I went away.
I say, wake up!



From that evening the face haunted me. I do not mean that it possessed
me to the exclusion of everything else, but at odd moments it would
rise before me, and then I fell into a revery. You must have noticed
my thoughtfulness of late. Often I have laid down my paper at the club
and tried to think back to the original. She was probably better known
to Jack Goring than to myself. All I was sure of was that she had been
known to both of us. Jack and I had first met at Cambridge. I thought
over the ladies I had known there, especially those who had been friends
of Goring's. Jack had never been a 'lady's man' precisely; but, as he
used to say, comparing himself with me, 'he had a heart.' The annals of
our Cambridge days were searched in vain. I tried the country house in
which he and I had spent a good many of our vacations. Suddenly I
remembered the reading-party in Devonshire--but no, she was dark. Once
Jack and I had a romantic adventure in Glencoe in which a lady and her
daughter were concerned. We tried to make the most of it; but in our
hearts we knew, after we had seen her by the morning light, that the
daughter was not beautiful. Then there was the French girl at Algiers.
Jack had kept me hanging on in Algiers a week longer than we meant to
stay. The pose of the head, the hands clasped behind it, a trick so
irritatingly familiar to me--was that the French girl? No, the lady
I was struggling to identify was certainly English. I'm sure you're
asleep.

A month elapsed before I had an opportunity of seeing the photograph
again. An idea had struck me which I meant to carry out. This was to
trace the photograph by means of the photographer. I did not like,
however, to mention the subject to Colonel Goring again, so I contrived
to find the album while he was out of the smoking-room. The number of
the photograph and the address of the photographer were all I wanted;
but just as I had got the photograph out of the album my host returned.
I slipped the thing quickly into my pocket, and he gave me no chance
of replacing it. Thus it was owing to an accident that I carried
the photograph away. My theft rendered me no assistance. True, the
photographer's name and address were there; but when I went to the place
mentioned it had disappeared to make way for 'residential chambers.' I
have a few other Cambridge friends here, and I showed some of these the
photograph. One, I am now aware, is under the impression that I am to be
married soon, but the others were rational. Grierson, of the War Office,
recognized the portrait at once. 'She is playing small parts at the
Criterion,' he said. Finchley, who is a promising man at the bar, also
recognized her. 'Her portraits were in all the illustrated papers five
years ago,' he told me, 'at the time when she got twelve months.' They
contradicted each other about her, however, and I satisfied myself that
she was neither an actress at the Criterion nor the adventuress of 1883.
It was, of course, conceivable that she was an actress, but if so her
face was not known in the fancy stationers' windows. Are you listening?

I saw that the mystery would remain unsolved until Jack's return home;
and when I had a letter from him a week ago, asking me to dine with him
to-night, I accepted eagerly. He was just home, he said, and I would
meet an old Cambridge man. We were to dine at Jack's club, and I took
the photograph with me. I recognized Jack as soon as I entered the
waiting-room of the club. A very short, very fat, smooth-faced man was
sitting beside him, with his hands clasped behind his head. I believe I
gasped. 'Don't you remember Tom Rufus,' Jack asked, 'who used to play
the female part at the Cambridge A.D.C.? Why, you helped me to choose
his wig at Fox's. I have a photograph of him in costume somewhere at
home. You might recall him by his trick of sitting with his hands
clasped behind his head.' I shook Rufus's hand. I went in to dinner,
and probably behaved myself. Now that it is over I cannot help being
thankful that I did not ask Jack for the name of the lady before I saw
Rufus. Good-night. I think I've burned a hole in the pillow.





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