CHAPTER XXVII.
CHRISTMAS ON THE OTHER SIDE.
"'Christmas, 1893.' Those last two figures are a bit crooked; aren'tthey, Dol?" said a tall, soldierly fellow, who was no longer a boy, yetcould scarcely in his own country call himself a man.
He read the date critically, having fixed it as the centre-piece in afestive arch of holly and bunting, which spanned the hall of a mansionin Victoria Park, Manchester.
"I believe that's better," he added, straightening a tipsy "93," andbounding from a chair-back on which he was perched, to step quicklybackward, with a something in gait and bearing that suggested a cavalryswing.
"'Christmas, 1893,'" he read musingly again. "Goodness! to think it'stwo years since we laid eyes on old Cyrus, and that he has landed onEnglish soil before this, may be here any minute--and Sinclair too. Iguess"--these two words were brought out with a smile, as if the speakerwas putting himself in touch with the happiness of a by-gone time--"Iguess that 'Star-Spangled Banner' will look home-like to them."
And Neal Farrar, just back for a short vacation from Sandhurst MilitaryCollege, twice gravely saluted the gay bunting with which his Christmasarch was draped, where the Union Jack of old England kissed the AmericanStars and Stripes.
"I say!" he exclaimed, turning to a tall youth, who had been inspectinghis operations, "that Liverpool train must be beastly late, Dol. Thosefellows ought to be here before this. The Mater will be in a stew. Sheordered dinner at five, as the youngsters dine with us, of course,to-day, and it's past that now."
"Hush! will you? I'll vow that cab is stopping! Yes! By all that'ssplendid, there they are!" and Dol Farrar's joy-whoop rang through theEnglish oaken hall with scarcely less vehemence than it had rung informer days through the dim aisles of the Maine forests.
A sound of spinning cab-wheels abruptly stopping, a noise of men's feeton the steps outside, and the hall-door was flung wide by two pairs ofwelcoming hands.
"Cyrus! Royal! Got here at last? Oh! but this is jolly."
"Neal, dear old boy, how goes it? Dol, you're a giant. I wouldn't haveknown you."
Such were the most coherent of the greetings which followed, as twovisitors, in travelling rig, their faces reddened by eight days at seain midwinter, crossed the threshold.
There could be no difficulty in recognizing Cyrus Garst's well-knitfigure and speculative eyes, though a sprouting beard changed somewhatthe lower part of his face. And if Royal Sinclair's tall shoulders andbrand-new mustache were at all unfamiliar, anybody who had once heardthe click and hum of his hasty tongue would scarcely question hisidentity.
The Americans had steamed over the Atlantic amid bluster of elements,purposing a tour through southern France and Italy. And they were totake part, before proceeding to the Continent, in the festivities of anEnglish Christmas at the Farrars' home in Manchester.
"Oh, but this is jolly!" cried Neal again, his voice so thickened by thejoy of welcome that--embryo cavalry man though he was--he could bringout nothing more forceful than the one boyish exclamation.
Dol's throat was freer. Sinclair and he raised a regular tornado in thehandsome hall. Questions and answers, only half distinguishable, blewbetween them, with explosions of laughter, and a thunder of claps oneach other's shoulders. When their gale was at its noisiest, Royal'spart of it abruptly sank to a dead calm, stopped by "an angel unawares."
A girl of sixteen, with hair like the brown and gold of a pheasant'sbreast, opened a drawing-room door, stepped to Neal's side, andwhispered,--
"Introduce me!"
"My sister," said Neal, recovering self-possession. "Myrtle, I believeI'll let you guess for yourself which is Garst and which is Sinclair."
"Well, I've heard so much about you for the past two years that I knowyou already, all but your looks. So I'm sure to guess right," saidMyrtle Farrar, scrutinizing the Americans with a pretty welcomingglance, then giving to each a glad hand-shake.
Royal's tongue grew for once less active than his eyes, which were socaught by the golden shades on the pheasant-like head that for a minutehe could see nothing else. Even Cyrus, who was accustomed to look uponhimself as the cool-blooded senior among his band of intimates, tingleda little.
"You're just in time for dinner--I'm so glad," laughed Miss Myrtle. "AChristmas dinner with a whole tribe of Farrars, big and little."
"But our baggage hasn't come on yet," answered Garst ruefully. "WillMrs. Farrar excuse our appearing in travelling rig?"
"Indeed she will!" answered for herself a fair, motherly-looking Englishwoman, as pretty as Myrtle save for the gold-brown hair, while she camea few steps into the hall to welcome her sons' friends.
Five minutes afterwards the Americans found themselves seated at a tablegarlanded with red-berried holly, trailing ivy, and pearl-eyedmistletoe, and surrounded by a round dozen of Farrars, including severalyoungsters whose general place was in schoolroom or nursery, but who,even to a tot of three, were promoted to dine in splendor on ChristmasDay.
"Well, this is festive!" remarked Cyrus to Myrtle, who sat next to him,when, after much preparatory feasting, an English plum-pudding,wreathed, decorated, and steaming, came upon the scene. Fluttering amidthe almonds which studded its top were two wee pink-stemmed flags. Andhere again, in compliment to the newly arrived guests, the"Star-Spangled Banner" kissed the English Union Jack.
"Say, Neal!" exclaimed Cyrus, his eyes keenly bright as he looked at thetoy standards, "wouldn't this sort of thing delight our friend Doc? Bythe way, that reminds me, I have a package for you from him, and amessage from Herb Heal too. Herb wants to know 'when those gamyBritishers are coming out to hunt moose again?' And Doc has sent you alittle bundle of beaver-clippings. They are from an ash-tree two feet incircumference, felled by that beaver colony which we came across nearthe _brulee_ where you shot your bear and covered yourself with glory.Doc asked you to put the wood in sight on Christmas Night, and to thinkof the Maine woods."
"Think of them!" Neal ejaculated. "Bless the dear old brick! does hethink we could ever forget them and the stunning times we had in campand on trail?"
Camp and Trail: A Story of the Maine Woods Page 28
