Daniel Plainway - Or The Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  Jeram was not made to feel that he must hurry after their meal, but when an appropriate amount of time had been spent in the parlor, he complimented the cook, thanked his hosts with great feeling, and took his leave. Ian himself saw the boy out.

  But when they returned to the parlor, Daniel sensed a great wind let out of the old man, and Daniel’s own muscles tensed with sudden apprehension. Ian and Dora, Nell and Daniel had only settled themselves again when the old man spoke up, quietly and (the tone of his voice) kindly.

  “You will not of course invite that boy again.”

  Nell was confused, at first, then stunned as the import of Ian’s words struck home. Daniel considered his knees, hardly daring to glance at either the old man or the seventeen-year-old girl.

  “Grand father?” she said.

  “My dear, “said the old man, “it is very kind of you, and young Jeram seems like a nice enough lad, for a Willum. But he is a Willum, and if he does not behave like an animal, he is yet kin to those who do.”

  “It was not kind of me at all!” said Nell with more vexation than Daniel had ever heard in her voice. “He is my friend.”

  “Yes,” said Ian, “and that does raise another difficulty.” He raised his own eyes to hers for the first time since they returned to the parlor. “Any friendship between yourself and this boy would indicate that you have spent time together before today.”

  Nell straightened in her chair, not knowing what to make of Ian’s tone. “W have met a time or so, walking-”

  Ian’s gaze did not break, nor did his expression alter a whit.

  “I have been helping him with his reading,” she continued. “I lent him a book or two.”

  “He’s not the sort of boy I would have for you, Nell,” said the old man.

  “Because his last name is Willum?”

  “Yes, and other things.”

  The girl was clearly angry now, and Daniel hated to glimpse such emotion in her eyes or hear it in her voice as she spoke to the old man.

  “He is a very fine person,” she said. She was shaking, fighting back tears. Then her control faltered, and she rose from her chair.

  “You will stay with us or go to your room,” said the old man flatly.

  Daniel could almost hear her swallow as she paused to consider this choice. He was shamed for her humiliation and looked down at his knees again. Then she was gone, and they heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  Dora let out an exclamation of astonishment.

  “Thank you for standing by me in that, Daniel,” said Ian Linnett.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the lawyer.

  The old man nodded to Daniel. “For adding your tacit support.”

  A maxim returned to Daniel: The heighth of presumption is the heighth of ignorance. He found himself standing, as if he were in court.

  “Ian,” he said, “I was quiet out of respect to both you and Nell and with the understanding that I was privy to a private concern and therefore had nothing to say. But if you ask me to take a side in this issue, some thought on the matter may not bring me down where you are standing, and if Nell thinks as you that I support your banning, out of hand, Jeram Willum from her company, then I would ask for the opportunity to disabuse her of the notion.” Though he cared deeply for Ian Linnett, Daniel was yet a little daunted by the old man, and it took some nerve to pronounce these thoughts when he had hardly disagreed with the man in eighteen years.

  “And you would allow a child in your care to mix with the Willums?” asked Ian.

  “T befriend Jeram Willum, not the entire clan,” returned Daniel quietly. “I have known villains to rise from good families and good from bad.”

  “It’s true,” conceded Linnett, his great white head nodding, “given some generations, there might be Willums of worth, and given the opportunity, Jeram might be the seed from which such a tree could eventually bear fruit.”

  “I would judge the boy on his own merits, rather than those of his ancestors or his descendants.”

  “I beg your pardon if my presumption has offended you, “said the old man simply, now looking away himself, “and also if I don’t see you out this afternoon, Daniel.”

  Daniel gave a short bow, then nodded to Dora, who had remained silent and troubled throughout the preceding scene. In the hall he found his hat and was almost out the front door when he glanced up the front stairs. On the top step sat Nell, in neither the parlor nor her room, and it was the first instance, he thought, that he had ever seen her disobey her grandfather.

  There were tears on her face and an unreadable expression, but when Daniel turned and looked up at Nell, she gave him a frail smile and mouthed the words Thank you.

  He did not know whom he had betrayed in the last few minutes. What if the whole town had taken an interest in the boy? he wondered. What if I had? He tried to smile back at Nell; then with a wave he left.

  The following Saturday, when Daniel was stepping out of the post office and general store, Jeram’s wild brother Asher came riding through town on a handsome brown mare he had acquired by Lord only knows what means. Daniel took note immediately that someone in dress and petticoats was riding tandem behind the rake and stood gaping for some minutes after they had trotted by and he had seen Nell Linnett bouncing behind Asher with her arms about his middle.

  22. Stones in the Lake

  Roger Noble’s voice was cold and unwelcome after a brief silence in the parlor. “If you catch the next train,” he said to Daniel Plainway, “you might find the Moosepath League by this evening.”

  From the moment he first saw Roger Noble, Daniel had felt a quiet dislike for the man. It was obvious that Noble had caused Miss Bumbrake distress, which was reason enough, but now his otherwise polite suggestion was couched in such ruthless tones and the use of the Moosepath League’s name was pronounced so flippantly and with such disrespect (Daniel had come to like these men though he had yet to meet them) that the lawyer felt his first impression of Noble unfavorably confirmed.

  Daniel contemplated the scrawled note in his hand. He looked up, his expression difficult to read, and said, “I was just thinking that I haven’t had any lunch today.”

  “We’ll call down,” said Pacif a with a great show of pleasure.

  “They serve a very nice meal in the dining car,” said Noble.

  “But they do not provide such lovely company,” replied Daniel. Such blatant flattery was not natural to him, but he nearly pulled it off without blushing.

  “We’re sorry you have to leave,” said Pacif a to Noble in a very offhanded manner.

  “I said nothing about leaving,” said Noble without taking his eyes from the other man. His enviable carriage stiffened. He was a hand and a half taller than Daniel and quite willing to wield his height in belligerent meetings with other male animals.

  Daniel’s expression remained mild, his own posture unmoving. Pacifa stood between them, one dark eyebrow raised. Charlotte stared at the carpet; her face was flushed with shame. Noble’s glance went from Daniel’s almost humorous look to the dark woman’s quizzical eyebrow to Charlotte.

  “Is that your coat?” asked Pacifa.

  On his way across the room, Noble deliberately walked toward Daniel, who only stepped aside, and if Noble could have seen who looked foolish and who looked wise at this juncture, he might not have worn such rigid smile when he snatched up his coat and marched to the door. “Good-bye,” he said in a growl before stepping into the hall; then below his breath he said, “I will be back.” He did not quite slam the door behind him.

  Now that the imbroglio was done, Daniel looked down at his hands and said, “I beg your pardon.”

  “Good heavens!” said Pacifa, who had not entirely lost her humor.

  “I must beg your pardon, Mr. Plain way,” said Charlotte. “I am sorry and deeply ashamed for having relied on your gentlemanly nature.”

  “Quite the contrary, Miss Burnbrake,” said Daniel, with the lightest bow of his head. “I am gratefu
l if I have been of any service.”

  “Forgive me if I retire now,” said Charlotte, and unable to look the man in the eye, she hurried through the alcove to her room.

  Daniel was profoundly affected by what had transpired these past minutes (hardly five had passed since he first stepped into the parlor of the apartment), and he looked distressed when he turned back to Pacifa. “If there is anything else I can do,” he said.

  “You are very dear,” she said sincerely. She scrambled through the papers on the table and with a sound of discovery found the address that Daniel had first requested. “I wish I could welcome you to lunch, after all, Mr. Plainway, but-” She gestured toward the inner rooms. door, however, and spoke without exactly looking at Pacifa. “Of course,” he said. “Please don’t let me keep you.” He did stop at the “I hope Miss Burn brake will feel better soon.”

  “I shall tell her.” Pacif a let the man shut the door himself, and after a moment in which to take a breath, she bustled into the alcove and rapped on Charlotte’s door.

  “Charlotte, dear,” she said, knocking again, and at a soft note from within, she opened the chamber door. The windows were heavily curtained, and in the shadows it was difficult to tell Charlotte’s clothes from the bedcovers. Pacif a thought she would find her friend crying, but when she sat at the edge of the bed, Charlotte was only lying on her side with a crumpled handkerchief in one hand.

  “Why does he persecute me?” said Charlotte.

  “He’s gone,” said Pacifa.

  “And in front of a stranger-”

  “Be glad Mr. Plainway came when he did.”

  “What did you write on that note?” asked Charlotte.

  Pacif a thought that curiosity was a healthy signal.

  “Oh, dear!” said Charlotte when Pacif a explained.

  “He thought nothing of it,” assured Pacifa.

  “How could he not?”

  “It is the difference between a chivalrous man and your cousin.”

  Charlotte sat up and began to fold her handkerchief when she realized that she had a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. It was the telegram from Uncle Ezra, warning her that her cousin had abandoned him and that she should follow her uncle to Hallowell.

  “I’ll have to leave immediately,” said Charlotte.

  “I was afraid you would say that,” Pacifa’s expression mitigated her disappointment with a soft smile.

  “Uncle will be worried to death. Perhaps you would send him a wire that I’m coming.”

  “Of course. I’ll help you get your things together. I can’t come with you, unfortunately.”

  Charlotte nodded sadly. “He hasn’t the smallest notion what he has done and what pleasure he has spoiled, even by the most indirect means.”

  “You might find the Moosepath League’s company more agreeable than mine.”

  “I hope everything is well with them,” said Charlotte when she thought of this. “That gentleman seemed to think it urgent that he find their Mister Walton.”

  Descending the broad stairs of the City Hotel, Daniel cast his eye about the foyer for the figure of Roger Noble. He had half expected the man to be waiting for him and was a little relieved to reach the door without a confrontation. Outside, the snow had accumulated so that traffic in the streets had slowed; the sidewalks were nearly empty.

  The last few hours had been something of an odyssey for Daniel; in fact the last week had taken him to many unexpected places. The previous night he had spent pleasantly with Sheriff Piper and his family in Wiscasset, and this morning he was on the first train south. It was snowing with real intent by the time he arrived in Portland. He hired a carriage to take him to the Newspaper Exchange, where he found Editor Corbell of the Eastern Argus, working in his office within a smoky haze of his own making.

  Sheriff Piper had shown Daniel several articles concerning the little boy that had appeared in the Arg, written by a competent wordsmith named Peter Mall. Editor Corbell was evasive, even cagey, when Daniel told him he would like to meet the writer. “You want to talk to Mister Walton,” is what Corbell said several times during the course of their conversation, puffing furiously at his cigar, and when Daniel realized that-for whatever reason-he was not going to meet this Peter Mall, he asked where he might find Mister Walton, whose reputation had already reached an almost legendary peak by way of the praise heaped upon him by Sheriff Piper.

  It was nearing noon when Daniel arrived at Spruce Street and the home of Tobias Walton. The estate’s elderly retainer Mr. Baffin expressed regret that his employer was not at home but gave Daniel the address of Matthew Ephram, charter member of the Moosepath League. At this address Daniel was given the address to Christopher Eagleton’s apartment, and he had almost resigned himself to visiting the home of every person ever involved with this situation when the man at Eagleton’s informed him that the entire club was traveling with a Mr. Burnbrake, who had-at least till this morning-taken residence at the City Hotel.

  Christopher Eagleton must have heaped some praise upon Mr. Burnbrake’s niece, and the servant at Eagleton’s was quick to pass on these good words. The man understood that the niece had been left behind, and Daniel hardly hoped that he was a little closer to finding where everyone had got to.

  “I’m glad I left my bags at the station,” he said to himself as he left the hotel. He stepped out into the storm, turning the collar of his coat against the wind that drove the snow eastward down the street. He stopped again on the sidewalk and peered up at the second-story windows. The troubled face of Charlotte Burnbrake had affected him more than he had realized.

  Charlotte dreaded even opening the door to the hall, she was so terrified of finding Noble waiting for her.

  “Come,” said Pacifa, “it is better if we’re out among people.” They found a man to help them with Charlotte’s bags and felt a little safer as he escorted them to the foyer, where he excused himself and went out onto the stormy sidewalk to find a cab.

  The scene from their carriage window was almost purely white, and Charlotte felt the storm pressing in on her. The closer they got to the station, the more bitterly hurt she was about it all, the absolute injustice. She and Pacif a said almost nothing till they had climbed from the carriage and paid the driver.

  The train was giving one of its final whistles before leaving the station. “You take care,” said the cabdriver, adding, “This’ll be the last train out till the plow comes through.”

  Pacif a walked her friend to the nearest car. Charlotte tried to apologize again, but Pacif a held a hand to her mouth. “We’ll get together soon,” said Pacifa, and she shushed Charlotte up the steps.

  Charlotte sat by a window and looked for Pacifa, but the day was dimming, and the snow-that which was falling and that which had fallen but was now drifting-blinded her view; the station house was hardly more than a shadow. Charlotte sat back in her seat and glanced at the man on the other side of the aisle. He was reading a newspaper, and his brown hat sat in the otherwise empty seat beside him. She hadn’t been looking at people when she was seating herself, and she was a little startled by him.

  A for the man, his expression was as mild as ever, and he did not press her with familiarity by looking directly at her when he spoke.

  “Miss Burnbrake,” said Daniel Plainway.

  23. Speech at Midnight

  Past Brunswick conversation lagged and after announcing the time, tide, and weather at regular intervals, Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump looked to their newspapers, hoping to glean some item of interest for their new acquaintances but, most important, for Mr. Burnbrake, who was so concerned about the disappearance of his nephew and the well-being of his niece. The snow had increased so that there was very little to see beyond the windows of the train.

  It was Thump who found in his chosen organ a column of some curiosity and conveyed its gist for the edification of them all, thus prompting an anecdote of decided curiosity from another party altogether.

  “I do recall some di
scussion concerning the mysteries of Christmastide at the Shipswood the other night,” he said, as preamble to his reading.

  “I too seem to remember,” agreed Eagleton.

  “What have you there, Thump?” wondered Ephram, who looked forward to some instructive thoughts from his friend.

  “It says here,” said Thump, “that ‘deep and manifold are the secrets of the Yuletide, not the least being that deed of nativity that is the feature of our celebration in this season. But mans desire for the enigmatic and his fanciful penchant for elaborating even so extraordinary a tale have led to the fabrication of many a wild idea. This writer takes, for example, the long-declared belief that on the night of the winter solstice, the spirits of the dead are permitted to roam their former environs.’”

  “I never knew it!” said Eagleton, searching his pockets for his journal.

  “The day of Doubting Thomas,” said Brink helpfully.

  “Is it?” said Ephram.

  “‘St. Thomas gray, St. Thomas gray,’” quoted Brink, “The longest night and the shortest day.’ My grandfather always brought his Christmas tree in on the twenty-first because it made the ghosts happy for some reason.”

  “Did it?” said Ephram.

  “Oh, I am sure it did.”

  “Spirits can be very troublesome this time of year,”said Waverley.

  “Can they?” said Ephram.

  “I can’t tell you how often spirits have kept me up at night so that my head pounds fearfully the next morning.”

  “That’s all year round,” said Durwood.

  “Oh, so it is.”

  This was yet more cryptic talk from the Dash-It-All Boys, and Thump was encouraged by Ephram and Eagleton to continue his reading.

  “‘Strangest of all,” he did read, “‘and yet surely more prevalent still, is the almost universal conviction in the mystic powers of Christmas Eve itself, when at midnight the creatures of nature are said to be granted the fleeting git of speech.’”