But oyez: Welbeck Abbey is the seat of the Dukes of Portland. Fifty years ago, by the clock, Lord George Bentinck was found dead there. Lord George was the brother of the existing incumbent. How he died, and why he died, constitute the central situation of this story. From it the masquerade proceeds. About it the allegations of the plaintiff are woven.
According to these allegations, Lord George and the duke, his brother, were in love with the same young person. Among the English middle classes a duke is regarded as sacrosanct, semi-royal and almost holy. This particular duke, the fifth of his race, does not seem to have shared these illusions. A plain man with a large heart and a small head, he amused himself in collecting high hats and unrecognizable children. In the pursuit of these diversions one day, or rather one night, he encountered his brother. Lord George was similarly engaged.
Imitation is flattery's most odious form. Moreover, though the heart of the duke was large, there was no room in it for a rival. For the first time the aroma of the strawberry leaves, which are the insignia of his rank, mounted headily. The illusions of the middle classes claimed him. At the moment he, too, regarded himself as quasi-royal, perhaps inviolate as well. If we may believe the plaintiff—and we are most anxious to—he raised a hand. When it fell his brother fell with it. Lord George was dead.
Then, instantly, the headiness of those leaves evaporated. He turned to the illusions. They had gone. Abruptly the Abbey changed. He was not there any more. It was in the gloom of a great gaunt court that he stood. He looked about. It was the Old Bailey. At the dock was a prisoner. He stared at him. It was himself. He could hear the benches creak. He could see the judge, one finger raised. Toward him there drifted the portentous words, "May God have mercy on your soul." Then, just as the headiness of the strawberry leaves had departed, so did that vision and the horror of it fade. But at his feet the dead man lay.
In what manner, whether alone or assisted, he got the body to the park and left it there, one may surmise, yet perhaps never know. In this tenebrous chronicle there are many points unelucidated yet. One thing, though, is clear. The death of Lord George was attributed to accident. Not by everybody, however. There were some who knew. The knowledge of their knowledge rebeckoned the vision. Waking or sleeping, always it was there. Do what he could to banish it, always it returned. Always he heard those benches creak. Always he saw that prisoner in the dock. Always the portentous words echoed in his ears. In the companionship of such sights and sounds another might have lost his reason. The Duke of Portland lost his identity. From a peer he became a mole.
The story of the subterranean palace which he then constructed has defrayed the gossip of a million teas. As a matter of fact, the palace and its labyrinths are what Mr. Baedeker calls Objects of Interest still. Beneath Welbeck Abbey he built another seat. Below the grounds he laid out gardens. He put a chapel there; he put passages, exits, trap-doors and a drive five miles long. Finally he put himself there. When all was complete he descended from the outer-air to the under-earth. It was Plutonian, and, as such, perhaps infernal. For with him the vision descended too.
In the chapel, however he prayed, it was not salvation he saw, but the gallows. On the drive, however he rode, behind him was a hue and cry. In a cellar beneath a cellar he could hide from the day, but not from fright. He turned darkness into a solid, yet through it there loomed, in deeper darkness, the gloom of a grim, gaunt court. The palace became a purgatory. Then the mole burrowed deeper.
