‘SO WE’LL ALL GO A-HUNTING TO-DAY’
The cheering results of this season of prosperity were not without
effect upon the sanguine temperament of Howard Effingham. Prone to
dismiss from his mind all darkly-shaded outlines, he was ever eager to
develop projects which belong to the enjoyments rather than to the
acquisitions of life. Few human beings had commenced with a smaller
share of foresight. _He_ required no exhortation to refrain from taking
heed for the morrow and its cares. For him they could hardly be said to
exist, so little did he realise in advance the more probable evils.
The time had arrived, in his opinion, to dwell less fixedly upon the
problem of income. The greater question of cultured living could no
longer be neglected. All danger of poverty and privation overtaking the
family being removed, Mr. Effingham for some time past had devoted his
mind to the assimilation of the lives of himself and his neighbours to
those of the country gentlemen of his own land. Something he had already
effected in this way. He had received a shipment of pheasants and
partridges, which, in a suitable locality, were making headway against
their natural enemies. Much of his time was spent, gun in hand, clearing
the haunts of the precious Gallinæ from the unsparing dasyurus (the wild
cat of the colonists), while Guy’s collection of stuffed hawks had
increased notably. Orders had been given to shoot every one that could
be seen, from the tiny merlin, chiefly devoted to moths and
grasshoppers, to the wedge-tailed eagle eight feet between the wings,
discovered on a mighty iron-bark tree, thence surveying the
bright-plumaged strangers. Hares, too, and rabbits had been liberated,
of which the latter had increased with suspicious rapidity.
Coursing, fishing, shooting, all of a superior description, Howard
Effingham now saw with prophetic vision established for the benefit of
his descendants at The Chase. They would be enabled to enjoy themselves
befittingly in their seasons of leisure, and cadets of the House, when
they visited England, would not have to blush for their ignorance of the
out-door accomplishments of their kinsfolk. In imagination he saw
The merry brown hares come leaping
Over the crest of the hill,
or starting from their ‘forms’ in the meadows which bordered the lake.
He saw the partridge coveys rise from the stubbles, and heard once more
the whirr of the cock pheasant as he ‘rocketted’ from the copse of
mimosa saplings. He saw carp, tench, and brown trout in the clear
mountain streams, and watched far down the Otsego ‘laker’ in the still
depths of their inland bay. At the idea of these triumphs, which long
years after his bones rested in an exile’s grave, would be associated
with the name of Howard Effingham, his heart swelled with proud
anticipation. But there was one deficiency as yet unfilled; one
difficulty hitherto not confronted. Much had been attempted, even
something done. Why should he not be more nobly daring still? Why not
organise that sport of kings, that eminently British pastime, nowhere
enjoyed in perfection, hitherto, outside of the ‘happy isles’? _Why not
go in for fox-hunting?_ Could its transplantation be possible?
True, the gladdening variety of pasture and plough, meadow and woodland,
over which hound and horse sweep rejoicingly in Britain, was not
possible in the neighbourhood. Hedges and ditches, brooks and banks, as
yet gave not change and interest to the programme while educating horse
and rider. Still, he would not despair.
In the pensive, breezeless autumn, or the winter mornings, when the dew
lay long on the tall grass, and the soft, hazy atmosphere gradually
struggled into the brilliant Australian day, could there be better
scenting weather? Would not the first cry of the hounds, as a dozen
couples, to begin with, hit off the scent of a dingo or a blue forester,
sound like a forgotten melody in his ears? There would be an occasional
fence to give the boys emulative interest; for the rest, a gallop in the
fresh morn through the park-like woodlands, or even across the spurs of
the ranges, would be worth riding a few miles to enjoy. All the
neighbours—now making money fast and not indisposed for amusement—would
be glad to join. A better lot of fellows no Hunt ever numbered amongst
its subscribers. Subscription? Well, he supposed it must be so. It would
be a proprietary interest, and he was afraid Wilfred would object to the
whole burden of maintenance falling upon the resources of The Chase.
This brilliant idea was not suffered to lapse for want of expansion.
Energetic and persistent in the domain of the abstract or the
unprofitable, Howard Effingham at once communicated with a few friends.
He was surprised at the enthusiasm which the project evoked. A committee
was formed, comprising the names of the Benmohr firm, Churbett,
Ardmillan, Forbes, and the D’Oyleys, besides Robert Malahyde, a
neighbour of Hampden’s and an enthusiastic sportsman. Never was a more
happy suggestion. It pleased everybody. O’Desmond declared that the very
idea recalled ‘The Blazers’; he felt himself to be ten years younger as
he put down his name for a handsome subscription on the spot. Fred
Churbett had always known that Duellist was thrown away as a hackney;
and now that there was something more to be jumped than the Benmohr
leaping-bar, did not care how early he got up. This announcement was
received with shouts of incredulous laughter.
Wilfred alone was not enamoured of this new project. He foresaw direct
and, still more serious, indirect expenses. It was no doubt a great
matter to have even the semblance of the Great English Sport revived
among them. Still, business was business. If this sort of thing was to
be encouraged, there was no knowing where it would stop. He himself
would be only too glad to have a run now and then, but his instinctive
feeling was that he would be better employed attending to his cattle and
consolidating the prosperity, which now seemed to be flowing in with a
steady tide.
In truth, of late, affairs had commenced to take a most encouraging,
even intoxicating turn for the better. The whole trade of the
land—pastoral, commercial, and agricultural—was in a satisfactory
condition, owing chiefly to unprecedentedly good seasons. All the
Australian colonies, more particularly New South Wales, have within them
elements of vast, well-nigh illimitable development. Nothing is needed
but ordinary climatic conditions to produce an amount of material
well-being, which nothing can wholly displace. The merchants of the
cities, the farmers of the settled districts, the squatters of the far
interior, were alike prospering and to prosper, it seemed, indefinitely.
The export trade, Mr. Rockley assured him, had increased astonishingly,
while the imports had so swelled that England would soon have to look
upon Australia as one of her best customers.
‘So you are going to have a pack of foxhounds in your neighbourhood, Mr.
Effingham?’ said Mrs. Rockley. ‘I think it a splendid idea. Chrissie and
I will ride over and see one of your meets, if you ask us.’
Then did Wilfred begin solemnly to vow and declare that the chief reason
he had for giving the idea his support was, that perhaps the ladies at
Rockley Lodge might be induced to attend a meet sometimes; otherwise, he
confessed he thought it a waste of money.
‘Oh, you mustn’t be over-prudent, Mr. Effingham. Mr. Rockley says you
Lake William people are getting alarmingly rich. You must consider the
unamused poor a little, you know. It is a case of real distress, I
assure you, sometimes in Yass when all you men take fits of hard work
and staying at home. Now hunting is such a delightful resource in winter
time.’
‘Every one in our neighbourhood has joined,’ said Wilfred, ‘but we shall
want more subscriptions if we are to become a strong Hunt club.’
‘Put me down,’ said Mr. Rockley. ‘I haven’t much time, but I might take
a turn some day. Hampden, the Champions, Malahyde, Compton, and Edward
Bellfield are most eager. Bob Clarke wrote forwarding their
subscriptions, though they live rather far off. They hope to have a run
now and then for their money.’
‘I think I shall ask your father to let me work him a pair of slippers,’
said Miss Christabel, ‘or an embroidered waistcoat, if he would like it
better. He deserves the thanks of every girl in the district for his
delightful idea and his spirited way of carrying it out. I hope some of
us won’t take to riding jealous, but I wouldn’t answer for it if ever
Mrs. Snowden and I get together. I’ll tell you who could cut us both
down.’
‘And who may that be?’ asked Wilfred.
‘Why, Vera Fane, of course. Didn’t you know that she rode splendidly?
When she was quite a little child she used to gallop after the cattle at
Black Mountain, where they live, and they say, though she is very quiet
about it, that she can ride _anything_.’
‘What sort of a place is this Black Mountain? It hasn’t altogether a
sound of luxury.’
‘Oh, it’s a terrible place, I believe, for poor Vera to have to live in
always,’ said the good-natured Christabel. ‘They say it is as much as
you can do to ride there, it’s so rough, and they had to pack all their
stores, I believe, till the new road was made. And they’re very poor.
Mr. Fane is one of those men who never make money or do anything much
except read all day. If it wasn’t for Vera, who teaches her brothers
(she’s the only girl), and keeps the accounts, and looks after the
stores, and manages the servants, and does a good deal of the housework
herself, the whole place would go to ruin.’
‘Apparently, if such a good genius was to be withdrawn; but why doesn’t
her father sell out and go away? There are plenty of other stations to
be got in more habitable places.’
‘Oh, his wife is buried there—no wonder she died, poor thing. He won’t
hear of leaving the place; and I really believe, lonely as it is, that
Vera likes it too. She is a wonderful girl, always teaching herself
something, when she isn’t darning stockings, or cooking, or having a
turn at the wash-tub, for Nelly Jones, who stayed with her one summer,
told me that they lost their servant once, and Vera _did everything_ for
a month. Sometimes she gets out, as she did to the races last year, and
she enjoys that, as you may believe.’
‘I hope she does,’ said Wilfred reflectively. ‘I thought her a very nice
girl, but I had no idea she was such a paragon.’
‘She’s a grand girl, and an ornament to her sex,’ said Mr. Rockley
suddenly. ‘I couldn’t have believed such a woman was possible, but I
stopped there a week once, weatherbound. All the creeks were up, and as
you had to cross the river about fifty times to get out of the
confounded hole, I was bound to let the water go down. I should have
hanged myself looking at old Fane’s melancholy phiz and listening to the
rain, if it hadn’t been for Miss Fane. But I’ll tell you all about her
another time. I must be off now. You’ll stay to dinner? I’ll find you
here, I suppose, when I come back.’
* * * * *
If Howard Effingham could only have bent his mind with the same
unflagging perseverance to matters of material advantage that he devoted
to the establishment of the Lake William Hunt, he would have been a
successful man in any country. Never would he have needed to quit his
ancestral home.
In some enterprises everything appears to go contrary from the
commencement. Hindrances, breakdowns, and mortifications of all kinds
arise, as it were, out of the earth. On the other hand, occasionally, it
appears as though ‘the stars in their courses fought _for_ Sisera.’ The
Hunt scheme had its detractors, who looked upon it as unnecessary and
injurious, if, indeed, it were not also impossible. These amiable
reviewers were discomfited. The sportsmen communicated with proved
sympathetic. All sent a couple or two of hounds, above the average of
gift animals; and one gentleman, relinquishing his position of M.F.H. in
Tasmania, shipped the larger portion of his pack, firmly refusing to
accept remuneration. He further stated that he should feel amply
compensated by hearing of their successful incorporation in the Hunt of
so well known a sporting centre as that of Lake William.
A kennel had been put up, of course, by Dick Evans. He had the dash and
celerity of a ship carpenter, ensuring stability, but avoiding
precision, the curse of your average mechanic. His colleague, old Tom,
who grumbled at most innovations, was, wonderful to relate, in a state
of enthusiasm.
Everybody in the district had a couple of hunters, it seemed, which he
desired to get into condition, a task for which there had never before
been sufficient inducement. Stalls and boxes were repaired, and the
tourist through the famed district which lay around Lake William was
enabled to report that nowhere in Australia had he seen such an array of
well-bred, well-conditioned horses.
Eventually, all necessary preparations were completed. Ten or twelve
couple of hounds had been got together, had been regularly exercised,
and, thanks to old Tom’s efficient services as whip, persuaded to
confine themselves to one kangaroo at a time, also to follow the scent
in early morn with a constancy truly remarkable, considering the
characters which they mostly enjoyed. So forward were all things, so
smoothly had the machinery worked, that after several councils of war a
day was at length fixed for the formal establishment of the ‘Lake
William Hunt Club.’
Notices and invitations were sent out in all directions. Even here
fortune favoured them. It so happened that Hampden and St. Maur, with
the Gambiers and a few more _esprits forts_, had business (real, not
manufactured) which compelled their presence within such distance as
permitted attendance. John Hampden was supposed to ride to hounds in
such fashion that he had few equals. Formerly, in Tasmania, a Master of
Hounds himself, his favourite hunter, The Caliph, was even now a
household word.
Such a glorious season, too! Why does not Nature more frequently
accommodate us with such easy luxuries—weather wherein every one is
prosperous, easy of mind, and, as a natural consequence, charitably
disposed? Everybody’s stock was looking well. Prices were high and
rising. There was a report gaining ground of rich lands having been
discovered and settlements formed in the far south. That fact meant
increased demand for stock, and so tended to make all things more
serene, if possible. Nobody was afraid to leave home, no bush fires were
possible at this time of year, the stock were almost capable of minding
themselves, and if a man had a decent overseer, why, he might go to
England without imprudence. Such was the wondrous concurrence of
fortune’s favours.
The great and glorious day arrived. Following the run of luck which had
marked the whole enterprise, its beauty would have rejoiced the heart of
any M.F.H. in the three kingdoms.
As the party commenced to assemble on the green knoll which lay in front
of the garden fence in view of the lake, all connoisseurs united in the
verdict that there could not have been invented a better scenting day.
There had been rain lately, and during the night anxiety had been felt
lest a downpour might mar the enjoyment of the unprecedented pastime.
Too kind, however, were the elements. The hazy dawn had gradually
yielded to a sunrise toned by masses of slowly moving soft grey clouds.
The air, saturated with moisture, became mild and spring-like as the
morning advanced. The wind changed to a few points nearer west and
gradually lulled to an uncomplaining monotone. The thick, green,
glistening sward, though reasonably damp, was firm and kindly in the
interests of the contending coursers. It was a day of days, a day of
promise, of fullest justification of existence. In such a day hope
returns to each heart, strong and triumphant; care is a lulled and
languid demon, and sorrow an untranslated symbol.
Nearly all the ladies who were to assist at the grand ceremonial had
ridden or driven over the night before. Warbrok was nearly as fully
occupied as Rockley Lodge had been at the races. It was many a day since
the old walls had included so large and mirthful a party, had listened
to such joyous babble, had echoed to like peals of innocent laughter.
Of course, the fair Christabel and her mother were early invited guests.
They had brought a girl cousin. Mrs. Snowden had also asked leave to
bring a friend staying with her at the time. Miss Fane had, of course,
been entreated by Mrs. Effingham to be sure to come, but that young lady
had written, sorrowfully, to decline as Dr. Fane was absent on business.
A postscript, partially reassuring, stated that he was expected home the
next day, and if the writer could possibly manage it she might ride part
of the way to Warbrok and join some friends who were to come to the
breakfast. But this was a hazardous supposition, too good to come off.
Deep regret was expressed at The Chase on the receipt of this note, but
the world went on nevertheless, as it does in default of all of us.
Can I essay to describe the array of dames and demoiselles, knights and
squires and retainers, yeomen, men-at-arms, and others of low degree,
who, on that ever-memorable autumn morn, trampled the green meadow in
front of old Warbrok House? Many a day has passed since the shadows of
the waving forest trees flecked the greensward, since the hillside
resounded to horse-hoof and jingling bridle, while mirthful words and
silvery laughter blended ever and anon with the unaccustomed bay of the
foxhound.
Ah me! Of the manly forms and bold, eager brows of those who kept tryst
that day, how many have gone down before the onset of battle, the arrow
of pestilence, the thousand haps of a colonist’s life? The stark limbs
are bowed, the bold eyes dimmed, the strong hearts tamed by the slow
sorcery of Time—even of those o’er whom the forest tree sighs not, or
the wild wave moans no requiem.
How many of that fair company have ridden away for ever into the Silent
Land! What bright eyes have forgotten to shine! How many a joyous tone
is heard no more!
The halls her bright smile lighted up of yore,
Are lonely now!
Gone to the Valhalla, doubtless, are many brave souls of heroes; but in
the good year of grace eighteen hundred and thirty-six the chances of
life’s battle sat but lightly on the gallant troop that reined up at the
first meet at Warbrok Chase. Many a goodly muster of the magnates of the
land had been held in that home of many memories ere this; but never
within the ken of the oldest chronicler had anything occurred so
successful, so numerously attended, of such great and general interest
to the district or neighbourhood.
Resolved that all the concomitants and accessories should be as
thoroughly English as could in any way be managed, Howard Effingham had
personally superintended the details of a Hunt breakfast, such as
erstwhile he had often enjoyed or dispensed within the bounds of Merrie
England.
North and south, and east and west,
The ‘visitors’ came forth,
as though minded to give the Squire of Warbrok—a name by which Howard
Effingham was commencing to be known in the neighbourhood—a substantial
acknowledgment of the interest taken by the country-side in his highly
commendable enterprise. The younger squatters, then, as now, the
aristocracy of the land, mustered gallantly in support of the hereditary
pastime of their order. A list might be attempted, were it only like the
names of the ships in Homer’s _Iliad_, some day to be read to curious
listening ears by one unknowing of aught save that such, in the dear
past, were the names of heroes.
But no thought of the irony of fate fell darkly on the merry party
issuing from The Chase to greet the Badajos and Benmohr contingents, as
they came up from opposite directions. With Harry O’Desmond rode a tall
man in a green hunting frock, whose length of limb and perfect seat
showed off the points of an inestimable grey of grand size and power,
whom all men saw at once to be The Caliph, well known on both sides of
the Straits. It was in truth John Hampden’s famous hunter, a very Bayard
among horses, at whom no horse-loving junior could look without tears in
his eyes.
Of that party also were the Gambiers—Alick, Jimmy, and Jack—with their
friend Willie Machell. A trio of cheerful hard-riding young squatters,
having made names for themselves as leading dare-devils where anything
dangerous was to be done with the aid of horse-flesh. Their ‘Romeo’
five-year-olds, with matchless shoulders, but imperfect tempers, carried
them admirably. Will Machell was a tall, mild, gentlemanlike, musical
personage, by no means so ‘hard’ as his more robust friends. He would be
available as a chaperon for the feminine division, as he did not intend
to do more than canter a mile or two after the throw-off.
Came from the broad river-flats and forest parks of the Murray, Claude
Waring and his partner Rodder, the former tall, dark, jovial; the latter
neat, prudent, and fresh-coloured.
Came from the volcanic cones and scoria-covered plateaus of Willaree the
broad frame and leonine visage of Herman Bottrell. He was well carried
by his square-built ambling cob, while beside him on a dark bay
five-year-old, with the blood of Tramp in his veins, sat the well-known
figure of ‘Dolly’ Goldkind, a man who in his day had shared the
costliest pleasures of the _haute volée_ of European capitals.
Commercial vicissitudes in his family had forced him to importune
fortune afresh in the unwonted guise of an Australian squatter. She had,
in this instance, not disdained to ‘favour the brave,’ and Dolly was now
in a fair way to see the pavement of the Faubourg St. Germain once yet
again, and to bask amid the transient splendour of the Tuileries. He had
faced gallantly his share of uncongenial solitude, unadorned Nature, and
rude surroundings, always awaiting, with the philosophy born of English
steadfastness, and Parisian _insouciance_, the good time coming.
Came Bernard Wharton, bronzed by the fierce unshadowed sun of that dread
waste where clouds rarely linger or the blessed rains of heaven are
known to fall. His last whoo-hoop had been heard in his own county, in
the ancestral land. His blue eye was bright, and his smile ready, as
though he had known naught but lightsome toil and the sport of his
Northamptonshire forefathers.
Ardmillan, Forbes, and Neil Barrington, with all the ‘Benmohr mob,’ as
they were familiarly called, were in the vanguard. Neil Barrington
possessed one valuable attribute of the horseman, inasmuch as he was
ready, like Bob Clarke, to ride anything and at anything. No man had
ever seen Neil decline a mount or a fence, however unpromising. But his
skill was inferior to his zeal, usually provoking comment from the
bystanders.
On one of these occasions, when he had hit a top rail very hard in an
amateur steeplechase, an expostulatory friend said, ‘Why don’t you lift
your horse, Neil?’
‘Lift, be d——d!’ replied the indignant Neil; ‘I’ve enough to do to stick
on.’
However, being muscular, active, and fearless, Neil’s star had hitherto
favoured him, so that he was generally well up at the finish.
One needs a staunch horse for ‘cutting out’ work, but the great raking
Desborough which Bob Clarke brought with him was surely too good to be
knocked about in the Benmohr bogs and volcanic trap ‘rises’ at a muster,
while his condition savoured more of the loose-box than the grass
paddock. Bob was one of those fortunate individuals that every one
everywhere, male and female, gentle and simple, is glad to welcome. So
there was no dissentient to the view of duty he had adopted but Mr.
Rockley. And though that gentleman stated it as his opinion that Master
Bob would have been better at home minding his work if he ever intended
to make money, he extended the right hand of fellowship to him, and was
as gracious as all the world and distinctly the world’s wife (and
probably daughter) was wont to be.
There were those who thought that Christabel Rockley’s eyes glowed with
a deeper light after Bob’s coming was announced. But such an occasion
would have brightened the girl’s flower-like face even if Bob had been
doomed to eat his heart the while in solitude and disappointment on the
far Mondarlo Plain.
‘None of the ladies who belonged to “our set,” and could ride at all,
were absent,’ Neil Barrington remarked, ‘except Miss Fane; and it was a
beastly shame she was prevented from coming—most likely by that old Turk
of a father of hers. It was a real pleasure to see her ride, and now
they were all done out of it.’
Just as Neil had concluded his lamentation for Vera Fane, who had won
his heart by comforting him after one of his tumbles, saying that she
never saw any one who rode so straight without turning out a horseman in
the end, the Granville party, who had a long distance to come, made
their appearance through the trees of the north gully, and there, on the
well-known bonnie brown Emigrant, between Jack Granville and his sister
Katie, was Vera Fane, or the evil one in her sweet guise.
So the grateful Neil was appeased, and straightway modified his language
with respect to Dr. Fane’s parental shortcomings; while Wilfred
Effingham, who never denied his interest in the young lady—chiefly, he
avowed, as a study of character—felt more exhilarated than he could
account for. The Granvilles were congratulated, first of all upon their
own appearance, and assured they were not at all late (Rockley had been
devoting them to the infernal deities for the last half-hour), then upon
their thoughtful conduct in bringing Miss Fane.
‘Deal of trouble, of course,’ quoth Jack Granville. ‘Miss Fane is one of
that sort, ain’t she? She rode over with a small black boy for an
escort, and roused us up about midnight. Nearly shot her, didn’t I,
Katie?’
‘I’m afraid I frightened you,’ said Miss Fane, with an apologetic
expression, ‘but papa had only just come home from Sydney. I knew if I
missed this eventful day I should never have such another chance, so I
lifted up Wonga by his hair, poor child, to wake him, and then started
off for a night ride.’
There was no time for further amenities, as the Master, triumphant and
distinguished in the eyes of the Australian-born portion of the Hunt,
gorgeous in buckskins, accurate top-boots, and a well-worn pink, moved
off with fourteen couple of creditable foxhounds. A very fair,
even-looking lot they were admitted to be. Old Tom had proved an
admirable whip, displaying a keenness in the vocation which verified the
tales with which he had regaled his acquaintances as to feats and
frolics with the Blazers in the historic County Galway, in the kingdom
of Long Ago.
A roan cob, with a reputation for unequalled feats in the jumping line,
had, after many trials, been secured by Wilfred as a ‘safe conveyance’
for his father. He was, indeed, an extraordinary animal; the sort that
some elderly gentlemen are always talking about and never seem able to
get.
Wallaby was a red roan, low set, of great power and amazing activity.
‘He could jump anything,’ his former owner declared, ‘and was that fond
of it, as you could lead him up to this ’ere three-railed fence with a
halter and he’d clear it and jump back without pulling it out of your
hand.’ This he proceeded to do before Wilfred and his father, after
which there was no question as to his cross-country capability.
Not above 14 hands 2 inches in height, with short legs, his neat head
and neck, with sloping shoulders and short back, ranked him as fit to
carry a bishop or a banker in Rotten Row. His thighs and gaskins showed
where the jumping came from. Besides these excellences, he was quiet,
fast, and easy in his paces; so that Mrs. Effingham and the girls had no
anxiety about the head of the house when so mounted.