_By Leslie Moore_
The Peacock Feather
The Jester
The Wiser Folly
[Illustration: “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
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
CHAPTER
I.--CONCERNING THE VILLAGE OF
MALFORD 5
II.--A RUMOUR 17
III.--A MEETING 20
IV.--A BLACK AND WHITE GOAT 25
V.--MURAL PAINTINGS 39
VI.--MRS. TRIMWELL 46
VII.--FLIGHTS OF FANCY 56
VIII.--AN OLD PRIEST 61
IX.--AN OLD-TIME TRAGEDY 74
X.--CORIN THEORIZES 85
XI.--IN AN OLD CHURCH 92
XII.--THE WICKEDNESS OF MOLLY
BIDDULPH 105
XIII.--AT DELANCEY CASTLE 113
XIV.--A POINT OF VIEW 121
XV.--JOHN PLAYS THE SAMARITAN 128
XVI.--CORIN DISCOURSES ON KARMA 138
XVII.--A RARE ABSURDITY 143
XVIII.--IN FATHER MALONEY’S GARDEN 145
XIX.--A BEWITCHING 152
XX.--A VITAL QUESTION 156
XXI.--A REQUEST 161
XXII.--THE WONDERFUL WOMAN 162
XXIII.--THE CACHE 167
XXIV.--DAVID DINES AT THE CASTLE 181
XXV.--JOHN MAKES A DISCOVERY 187
XXVI.--A FUNNY WORLD 192
XXVII.--THE OLD OAK 199
XXVIII.--ON THE TERRACE 207
XXIX.--AN UNEXPECTED LETTER 216
XXX.--ELIZABETH ARRIVES ON THE
SCENE 222
XXXI.--IN THE EARLY MORNING 226
XXXII.--THE NOTE OF A BELL 233
XXXIII.--THE GREEN MAN 235
XXXIV.--ELIZABETH GIVES ADVICE 246
XXXV.--THE BURDEN OF CONVENTIONALITY 255
XXXVI.--CONSPIRATORS 261
XXXVII.--CORIN TAKES A WALK 269
XXXVIII.--CONCERNING AN ARGUMENT 277
XXXIX.--A DUMB DOG-- 288
XL.--SPEAKS-- 290
XLI.--AT SOME LENGTH 291
XLII.--A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE 309
XLIII.--MOLLY ARRANGES AFFAIRS 316
XLIV.--AN ODD SENSATION 320
XLV.--THE OAK FALLS 323
XLVI.--TOLD IN THE STORM 325
XLVII.--AFTER THE RAIN 328
XLVIII.--IN SEARCH 331
XLIX.--THE FALLEN OAK 345
L.--A MIRACLE 347
LI.--AND SO THE STORY ENDS 352
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.”
“My companionship,” urged Corin.
“The blatant conceit of the man,” sighed John.
Corin changed his tone, descended to wheedling. “Consider my
loneliness,” he remarked pathetically. “From six o’clock--I can’t put
in more than an eight-hour day--till midnight alone and unoccupied. Six
hours!”
“Go to bed at nine and reduce the six hours by a simple process
of subtraction to three, or play patience,” returned John
unsympathetically.
“Inhuman brute,” mourned Corin.
John merely laughed.
He was a tall young man, thirty or thereabouts, clean-shaven, bronzed,
grey-eyed, and with a thin hooked nose. His mouth, below it, was
slightly grim in repose. But, when he smiled, you forgot the grimness,
and smiled involuntarily in response. Also, you found yourself watching
for the smile to come into play a second time. It had a curious manner
of leaping first to his eyes in a sudden and illuminating flash.
Deserting them, it passed equally suddenly to his mouth, leaving the
eyes sad. It was a disconcerting trick, a baffling magician’s trick,
and left you wondering. In the matter of dress he was fastidious to
a degree. At the moment his attire was the most immaculate suit of
London clothes, grey trousers, frock coat, and all the rest of the
paraphernalia. His silk hat, exceeding glossy, reposed on a worm-eaten
oak chair near him. He had removed a pile of sketch books and a bunch
of dilapidated lilies to make place for the hat. They lay now on the
floor.
With Corin, by contrast, clothes were a matter of necessity as mere
covering, and no more. His tweed trousers and Norfolk jacket had an
out-all-night-in-the-wet-and-then-sat-upon air. In two words they
looked loosely crumpled. Paint spots adorned the left sleeve, in
the crook of the elbow where his palette was wont to rest. His soft
collar, attached to his shirt, was unbuttoned, and merely held together
by a smoke-grey tie. Briefly, in the matter of clothes, he was the
prototype of the modern novelist’s art-student,--the type that emerges
paint-stained, careless-clad, cheerfully Bohemian, from the chapters of
such novels as deal with the art world in Chelsea.
But here it behoves me to walk warily lest I should hear a whisper of
“glass houses,” for does not this very Corin himself dwell in that most
fascinating region of London? Is not his studio within a bare five
minutes of the dirty, muddy, grey, but wholly adorable Thames, where
it drifts past Carlyle’s statue, smoke-grimed and weather-worn, and on
past the old herbalist’s garden set back across the street?
In face, this same Corin was plump, smooth-skinned, rosy-cheeked,
fair-haired, with short-sighted blue eyes that gazed at you kindly from
behind gold-rimmed spectacles. His own appearance caused him moments
of acute anguish.
“Look at me!” he would cry on occasions, having met his reflection in
some unexpected mirror in a friend’s house or studio, “Look at me! The
soul of an artist, and the appearance of a benign and grown-up baby!
If I didn’t know my own nature and character, I vow I’d be taken in. I
_am_ taken in when I come upon myself in this disgusting and unexpected
fashion. Who’s that odd, kindly, little pink-faced man? I ask myself.
And then I realize it’s me, _me_, ME! And, even while I’m swearing at
the sight of myself, I look no more than a cross baby yelling for its
feeding bottle. Talk of purgatory! I get ten years of it every time I
come opposite a looking-glass. The things ought to be abolished. They
ought to be ground to powder, scattered like dust to the four winds of
heaven. They merely pander to woman’s vanity. No man wants to look into
one. If he looks like a man he doesn’t bother about it. If he looks
like me--” At this juncture his anguish would become too acute for
further speech.
There was a pause in the conversation, quite an appreciable pause,
seeing that it lasted at least two and three-quarter minutes. Then:
“So the matter is definitely settled,” announced Corin with an air of
finality, “and on Tuesday next you and I, a couple of boon companions,
wend our way to the charming, the altogether adorable and old-world
village of Malford, situated, so the guide-books tell us, precisely
seven miles from Whortley station, as the crow flies. Why as the crow
flies,” he continued ruminatively, “I have never been able to fathom.
The information is of remarkably small use to the feathered species,
and I have not yet been able to grasp what precise and particular use
it is to mankind at large.”
John, whose attention had been wandering, roused himself.
“For sheer pertinacity,” he remarked suavely, “commend me to one, Corin
Elmore, painter, poet, musician, theosophist, and fortune-teller; in
short, dabbler in the arts and the occult sciences.”
“At all events _you_ can hear Mass at Malford,” retorted Corin
succinctly. It would appear that “dabbler in the occult sciences” had
pricked.
“Truly?” John’s tone was politely interrogative. “At what distance from
Malford, as the crow flies?”
“You can hear Mass _in_ Malford, _in_ the Chapel, _in_ Delancey
Castle.” The statement was triumphant.
“Delancey Castle!” ejaculated John. For the first time interest,
genuine interest, stirred in his voice. He began, in a manner of
speaking, to sit up and take notice.
“Delancey Castle,” reiterated Corin. And then suspiciously, “But why
this sudden interest?”
“Merely that I have heard of the place,” said John nonchalantly.
“Who hasn’t?” Corin’s voice was faintly edged with scorn. “One of the
oldest baronial castles in England; situated in a park famed for its
oaks and copper beeches; Norman in origin, enlarged during the Tudor
period; minstrel’s gallery, secret chambers, terraced gardens. From all
accounts it breathes the very essence of romance and bygone forgotten
days. Heavens above! were there indeed tongues in trees, and sermons in
stones, I’ll swear there’s many a tale those old walls and the trees
around them might disclose.”
“It is a matter for devout thanks,” returned John piously, “that the
tongue of Nature wags, in a manner of speaking, rather in accordance
with our mood of the moment than by any actual physical volition of its
own. We have quite enough to do to stop our ears to the human tongues
around us. But, seriously, I had no idea that Delancey Castle was
situated in this sequestered spot of yours.”
“Sequestered spot of mine!” ejaculated Corin. “I lay no claim to the
spot. It exists not for my benefit, save in so far, I would have you
note, as certain pecuniary advantages will accrue to me for work done
in its lonely regions. Nevertheless Delancey Castle is situated there,
unless some good or evil genius has seen fit to remove it piecemeal
since last Thursday week. I saw it on that date with my own eyes, ‘set
on an eminence’--again the guide-books--‘above the small village of
Malford. Glimpses of its rugged grey towers may be observed among the
lordly oaks and magnificent copper beeches for which the park is justly
famed.’ I refer you to page one hundred and twenty-two of Sanderson’s
_Guide to Country Houses_ for the accuracy of my quotation.” He broke
off to light a fresh cigarette, then looked at John, challenging him
through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Oh, I’ll not question the accuracy of your quotation,” retorted John.
“But how about your _former_ statement regarding the situation of the
Castle? You stated it was _in_ the village. Now I learn it is on an
eminence above it.”
“Hark to the quibbler!” cried Corin.
“Not at all,” returned John. “A Castle _on_ an eminence is a very
different pair of shoes from a Castle _in_ a village, especially when
it is incumbent upon one to seek that said Castle in order to fulfil
one’s devotional obligations.”
“If,” said Corin reflectively, “I were a Catholic--don’t get excited,
there’s no smallest prospect of your ever claiming me as a convert--but
if I were a Catholic, I should not be so disgustingly slack about my
religion as to object to walking up a small hill in order to attend my
religious services.”
“I never said I objected to walking up a small hill,” remarked John. “I
was merely pointing out the inaccuracy of your former statement.”
Corin sighed patiently. “You make me tired with your quibbling. And
that last remark distinctly wanders from the truth.”
John smiled, not deigning further reply. It began as a small pitying
smile for Corin’s weakness of retort, it continued with a hint of
pleasure, a tiny secret excitement as at the possibility of the
fulfilment of some concealed desire. His heart had beaten at least
three degrees quicker at the mention of Delancey Castle, and it had not
yet resumed its normal gentle throbbing.
He waited silent. There was now but one thought uppermost in his mind.
Yet he could not voice it. The renewed suggestion--it surely would
be renewed--must come from Corin. For John to give spontaneous hint
of yielding in the matter of recent discussion would be to run the
risk--though possibly merely a faint risk--of giving himself away.
Faint or blatant, the risk was to be avoided at all cost. He smoked
on, therefore, imperturbable, his eyes for the most part on a desk in
a corner of the studio, an extremely untidy desk, covered with papers
that looked for all the world as if they had been tossed thereon by a
whirlwind, and then stirred by an exceedingly vigorous arm wielding a
pitchfork. Yet, for all that his eyes were upon the desk, his thoughts
were upon Corin.
“Speak, man, speak,” he was urging him by that mental process which is
termed “willing.” “Renew your persuasions; beg me again to accompany
you on your lonely sojourn.”
But either Corin was no medium, or John was no medium,--I have never
been fully able to fathom whether the willer, or the willed, or both
must be possessed of the mediumistic faculties for satisfactory results
to accrue,--certain it is that Corin sat placidly silent, apparently
entirely oblivious of John’s mental efforts in his direction.
Willing can be an exhausting process, at all events to one who
is not an adept in the art. In John’s case, as the vigour of his
efforts increased, his muscles grew tighter and tighter, till his
very toes curled with spasmodic tension inside his shiny, polished,
patent-leather boots, while a portentous frown drew his eyebrows firmly
together till they practically met above his thin hooked nose.
Corin, glancing suddenly in his direction, surprised an almost
anguished expression of countenance.
“Are you ill?” he ejaculated dismayed, and with a swift half-movement
towards the cupboard where the brandy decanter was situated.
John’s face relaxed on the instant.
“Not in the least, thank you.”
“Then what on earth were you making such faces about?” demanded Corin.
“I was not aware that I was making faces,” said John with some dignity.
“I was merely thinking.”
“Thinking!” Corin’s light arched eyebrows rose nearly to his fair hair.
“Then, man, for Heaven’s sake don’t do it again. It’s--it’s really
dangerous.”
John heaved himself out of his chair, bitterly conscious of the
futility of his efforts.
“Going?” said Corin. And then solicitously, “Sure you’re really all
right?”
“Quite, thanks,” returned John with faint asperity.
Corin strolled with him to the door. John was half-way down the stairs
when he heard a voice call after him:
“I’ll let you know about the train on Tuesday.”
John halted, turned.
“Well, really!” he ejaculated.