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

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!

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.

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.