THE MARBLE FACE
The early days of March.
The afternoon was dull and wintry, with a dispiriting greyness hanging
over London.
Big Ben, high above, had just chimed, and the great bell had boomed
forth three o’clock.
In Parliament Square, that little oasis of green grass in Westminster,
the traffic of motor-’buses and taxi-cabs was increasing, and foot
passengers, wrapped warmly against the east wind, hurried to and fro
up Victoria Street, Whitehall, and over Westminster Bridge.
Within Westminster Abbey, in the grand old north transept--the
entrance to which is in Parliament Square--all was hushed, gloomy and
gradually darkening. The huge old pile stood mysterious and full of
deep shadows on that grey, depressing, windy afternoon.
The noise of the traffic did not penetrate within those time-mellowed
precincts, where the dim light struggled red, blue and orange through
the magnificent rose-windows, showing the figures of the apostles in
ancient glass. The high groined columns, the vaulted roof, and the
dark, solemn interior, vast and gloomy, with its many splendid
monuments and statues standing forth in relief, impressed the small
crowd of sightseers which, year in, year out, are never absent from
England’s most historic abbey.
In the Statesmen’s Corner--just as one enters from the hurry of
Parliament Square--many visitors of various tongues came and went.
They paused, conversing in whispers before the two rows of life-sized
statues of the departed great; Gladstone, Beaconsfield, the Cannings,
Pitt, Peel and the others, reflecting, admiring and remembering, for
that, and Poets’ Corner in the south transept, opposite, are the two
most sought-for spots by the hundreds of thousands of strangers who
annually make a pilgrimage to Westminster.
The double row of illustrious British statesmen, each upon his
circular pedestal, and each in characteristic attitude, stood silent,
impressive, almost ghostly, in the gloom, while those who entered
stood by, consulting their guide-books.
Surely no corner of our giant London, the hub of the hustling modern
world, is so full of memories of the great--of the men who made the
British Empire what it is to-day--than that spot, and on that
afternoon one overheard expressions of admiration in a dozen tongues.
Of the many who passed by probably not one noticed, back in the deep
shadow, just within the door, an elderly, ill-dressed and rather
decrepit-looking man, white-haired and white-bearded, and wearing a
shabby, snuff-coloured overcoat, who had paused to rest upon one of
the old oak benches.
Unseen, he sat motionless, his pale face turned towards one of the
high marble effigies--that of a statesman in the robes of a doctor of
laws, a noble, handsome-looking man with prominent nose, rather high
cheek-bones, his right hand across his breast, and his left at his
side. It stood close to the statue of Gladstone, and its circular base
bore in great bold, black letters the simple inscription:
ERECTED BY PARLIAMENT
To
The Right Honourable
The Earl of Ellersdale, K.G.,
Twice Prime Minister of England.
Born 1832. Died 1890.
With its back to one of the high, round Norman columns on the left, it
stood out in strong relief, with a softly tempered light, shed from a
long stained-glass window, revealing the clear-cut profile. The light
from the window behind fell directly across it, bringing it into more
prominence than the statues on either side, rendering the sculptor’s
masterpiece an almost speaking effigy of the dead Premier as he had so
frequently been seen in the House of Commons in the act of delivering
one of his world-famous speeches.
The shabby old man sitting back in the shadow was well known to the
black-gowned vergers. He haunted the precincts of the Abbey at all
hours. Often he would remain there a whole day, wandering up and down
the nave, or along the ancient cloisters. Sometimes he would wish them
a whispered “good-day,” but generally, with his shabby old silk hat in
his hand, he would shuffle on aimlessly, now and then sitting upon a
bench to rest.
He would have no doubt been warned off as a suspicious character long
ago had not the officials known him for years. They called him “Old
Chestnut,” on account of the colour of the threadbare overcoat which
he had worn summer and winter ever since his first appearance there.
He was a trifle eccentric, they declared, like many of those strange
characters who frequent our public buildings, and just as harmless as
the little old woman in faded black shawl who came every morning for
years and sat for one hour upon a certain bench in the south transept
before the bust of Thackeray, her lips moving as though in prayer.
“Old Chestnut”--for nobody knew his real name--sometimes entered the
Abbey as soon as it was opened to the public and did not leave till
closing time, on such occasions surreptitiously consuming dry biscuits
from his pocket. Now and then he would join parties of visitors and be
conducted by one of the vergers, who explained the various historic
portions of the Abbey. This he had done dozens of times, always giving
the verger a tip, just like the rest of the sightseers.
On other occasions, apparently in order that the people should regard
him as a stranger, he would carry a tattered Baedeker and pretend the
greatest interest in all he investigated.
With the man who sold guides and post cards at the stall just outside
the north door he was on terms of friendship, and would spend hours
chatting with him. Indeed, on occasions he would keep an eye upon the
stall if the vendor of guides had reason to absent himself.
Many theories had been put forward by the officials of the Abbey, from
the Dean himself down to the sweepers, regarding the reason of the old
man’s regular attendance there. As far as could be gathered, there was
no special attraction for him in the silent, gloomy interior, save
that he seemed to delight in wandering among the monuments of the
illustrious dead, at the same time watching the constant stream of the
living.
That afternoon as he sat back in the shadow resting, one of the
vergers nodded across to him, and he returned the salute with a quiet
smile, as though gratified by the recognition. Ever since early
morning he had been wandering about, and was now resting in
Statesmen’s Corner with the monument to the great Lord Ellersdale
straight before him, his eyes half-closed, his thin, clasped hands
resting upon his cherry stick, his old silk hat placed carefully at
his side.
In the gloom of the great nave the dark figure of a tall man halted
and stood watching him, unseen--a thin man with a yellow face--Don
Mario.
Only for a moment he watched, then, apparently satisfied, he turned
upon his heel and walked out, like an evil shadow, a strange, sinister
smile upon his hard features.
Though half asleep, “Old Chestnut” was nevertheless watching with keen
interest a party of American women, some of whom wore blue veils,
being conducted around by a guide.
“The Statesmen’s Corner,” the man was saying in his parrot-like way;
“here are buried the greatest of England’s statesmen during the past
two centuries. Gladstone and Beaconsfield you see stand side by side
with that smaller monument between them; the Cannings in a group, and
that, yonder, is Ellersdale, and is declared by critics to be the
finest piece of sculpture of the whole. Perhaps it is owing to its
better position, with a better light, that it is the more
noticeable--but in any case it is a fitting monument to the great
statesman who, in more than one serious crisis, was the saviour of his
country.”
“He was a fine man, and always a good friend of the United States,
anyway,” declared one of the women, and then the party moved across to
the south transept--to Poets’ Corner.
The old man’s eyes followed the party, and an amused expression
crossed his white face.
The quaint opinions of American tourists often caused him to smile.
Sometimes the ignorance of English history displayed by questioners
was utterly amazing, and many most extraordinary questions had he
overheard in the course of his long years of idling within those
time-mellowed, historic precincts. Sometimes--in order to kill the
hours, it seemed--he would explain things to a party of country
cousins--working people who could not afford to pay the fee for a
guide. He knew the Abbey as well as the vergers themselves, and
certainly when he spoke it was evident that he possessed a deep and
profound knowledge of its history and antiquities.
The party of Americans passed away into the gloom, and the corner
where he sat again became silent and deserted. That was no unusual
thing. Sightseers usually came in batches. If one person paused before
a monument, then another would be attracted to the same spot, and
another and another, and so on.
Big Ben had just rung out the notes of the quarter, and so dark had it
now become that the electric lights had been switched on in the more
remote parts of the nave, the little lamps glowing like stars in the
vast, black void of the great interior.
Of a sudden the door close to where the old man was seated opened, and
two figures entered from Parliament Square--a man in a dark overcoat,
accompanied by a slim, well-dressed young girl in black, wearing a
large hat, a long sealskin coat and a veil.
“It is just here,” exclaimed the man briskly, as they passed by where
“Old Chestnut” was seated. “See, at the corner--the one standing out
there in the light.”
And both walked straight on towards the statue of the dead Premier,
the man conversing with his companion in low, hushed whispers.
The man concealed in the shadow regarded them idly, but suddenly it
seemed as though in their backs he recognised something familiar, for
he bent forward, half rising from his seat, eager and uncertain.
The pair had halted before the statue of the Earl of Ellersdale, and
the girl was bending forward as she read the inscription. Then,
looking up at it, she stood for a few moments quite motionless.
The man was speaking--whispering rapid questions into her ear. But she
neither responded, nor did she move. It seemed as though the marble
features of the illustrious deceased held her in strange fascination.
Both their backs were turned to the silent, unseen watcher, and at
that distance, in the falling gloom, it had become difficult to
distinguish detail.
He saw, however, that the man placed his hand upon the girl’s arm, and
pointing upwards, asked her something. She replied, whereupon the man
slowly nodded.
Then the girl, suddenly turning her face from the lifelike sculptured
features, addressed some quick questions to her companion, to which he
made reply.
The old man, even at that distance, could overhear their whispering.
For a few moments the pair stood, their backs still turned, both their
faces raised in eagerness to the marble effigy, standing forth white
and ghostly in the dim, religious twilight.
The man’s gloved hand was raised, and he spoke to the girl, as though
he were pointing out the marvellous handiwork of the most famous
sculptor of the day. She whispered rapidly, moving further forward to
obtain a better view of the profile of the marble features.
Then he raised his hand again as, side by side, they stood in apparent
amazement.
The quick action of “Old Chestnut” at that moment was curious. He had
swiftly withdrawn deeper into the shadow beside the door, back into a
niche near an old sixteenth century tomb, where he hoped to escape
observation.
Sight of the strangers had startled him. His thin lips were pressed
together as he stood staring at them, almost terrified, for they had
both turned to retrace their steps slowly to the door. Then he turned
his back, and became interested in the crumbling old tomb.
His suspicions had become confirmed. He stood aghast.
The serious, earnest girl who had been there to inspect the statue of
the late Earl of Ellersdale so closely was none other than Maidee
Lambton, while her companion was Detective-Inspector Medland!
The pair, walking together and conversing in low whispers, passed
close by the pale-faced, anxious old man who, in the gloom, had his
back still turned to them, and then went out again into the noise and
bustle of Parliament Square.
And the weird and silent watcher, gazing at the closed door after they
had disappeared, stood with a look of abject terror upon his white,
haggard countenance.
“Then my secret is out!” he whispered hoarsely to himself. “_They know
the truth!_”