By Leslie Moore

The Peacock Feather The Jester The Wiser Folly

“FOR ALL HIS OUTWARD CALM, FOR ALL HIS LEVEL, EASY, CARELESS VOICE, HIS HEART WAS IN A TUMULT.” Drawn by D. C. Hutchison (See page 179.)

THE WISER FOLLY

BY

LESLIE MOORE

AUTHOR OF “THE PEACOCK FEATHER,” ETC.

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1916

Copyright, 1916

BY LESLIE MOORE

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

The Wiser Folly

PROLOGUE

When the Delancey affair had been brought to a conclusion, it was not uninteresting to note the various opinions set forth regarding its happy termination.

Biddy, at once autocrat and indulger of at least three generations of juvenile Delanceys, maintained, and stoutly, it was entirely due to her own prayers to her patron saint. She took, so to speak, a monopoly of the business as far as any human agency was concerned. But, as one cannot, with any degree of modesty, parade one’s private devotions to the world at large, it was hardly probable that this view of the matter would be universal.

The village in general, with the exception of Mrs. Trimwell, laid the whole credit at the feet of Lady Mary Delancey. Doubtless this was on account of the wave of relief which had surged over it, and which exalted her ladyship, for the time being at least, to a pinnacle of almost giddy height.

Mrs. Trimwell had her own private views on the matter. What they were, will, no doubt, be realized later.

Corin Elmore believed the whole thing due to karma, though it is true that this particular arrangement of karma puzzled him not a little.

John Mortimer, while maintaining on the whole a strictly neutral attitude, allowed his opinion of the credit due to sway slightly, if it swayed at all, in the direction of his sister Elizabeth. And in so doing, he swayed nearer the mark, if you will believe me, than the majority of folk with opinions on the subject.

Father Maloney was heard to announce that “surely to goodness the fella himself might be allowed a taste of the credit.” The “fella” was David Delancey. But more of him anon. Father Maloney made the announcement with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight exchange of glances with Lady Mary. That exchange of glances puzzled more than one of those who had happened to surprise it. Its meaning, however, was never fathomed. There was no question but that Lady Mary and the priest were past masters in keeping their own counsel when they chose. He would be a bold man who put any question savouring of impertinence to Lady Mary. For my part, I had sooner face a whole battery of artillery than have Lady Mary’s tortoiseshell-rimmed lorgnettes turned slowly upon me, her grey eyes glinting through them with steely courtesy. The courtesy was never absent, you may be sure, but then neither—on occasions—was the steeliness. Nor would it be well, if you wished to retain the smallest atom of self-respect, to question Father Maloney unduly. That soft tongue and speech of his could shrivel your complacency to the likeness of a withered leaf when you deserved it. And you may be very sure that, when they did shrivel it, you were left in no manner of doubt as to your deserts in the matter.

Lady Mary herself never ventured the smallest hint of an opinion as to whom the credit was due. In fact from first to last she kept a dignified silence on the whole affair, save when sheer necessity demanded speech from her. Her silence and dignity alone prevented it from sinking to melodrama, and truth obliges me to confess that it had more than once a distinctly suspicious flavour of that obnoxious quality.

But this is beginning at the wrong end of the skein, a proceeding which will indubitably result in a most fearsome tangle. Therefore, with your permission, I will break off and start anew.

CHAPTER I CONCERNING THE VILLAGE OF MALFORD

“Your idea,” said John meditatively, “as far as I can elucidate it from your somewhat wordy discourse, is that I should accompany you to this exceedingly out-of-the-way, this on your own showing entirely remote, secluded, and sequestered spot, for the sole purpose of affording you amusement in your so to speak out of work hours.”

“That,” returned Corin admiringly, “is the idea in toto. It is marvellous with what ease and skill you have grasped and summed up the entire situation.”

John sighed.

“And might one be allowed to question what are the advantages to be gained from such a sojourn? What manner of recreation can the place afford? In a word, where do I come in?”

“Advantages!” Corin raised his eyes to the cobwebby rafters. “Heavens above! Isn’t my companionship an advantage? And for recreation what more can you desire than the contemplation of country lanes and wide moorland this glorious summer weather? Think of it, man! The earth ablaze with purple heather, the sea blue and golden,—breathing, living, colour. Anon there will be blackberries, great luscious clusters of blue-black fruit hanging ready for the plucking in every hedgerow. Again, I ask, what more can you desire?”

John smiled grimly.

“I am not, I would have you observe, either an artist or a boy. Your inducements fail to move me.”