CHAPTER XVII

THE FIRST MEET OF THE LAKE WILLIAM HUNT CLUB

‘What a delightful sight!’ said Miss Fane to Rosamond; ‘and how glad I am that I was so determined to come. I have rather a craze for horses, I know, but doesn’t it look magnificent. What an array! Everybody within a hundred miles must be here. I feel as if I could go out of my senses with excitement. This is strictly between ourselves. But of course you have seen far larger fields.’

‘I was too young before I left home for much in the hunting way,’ said Rosamond, ‘but I was taken to see a throw-off now and then on the first day of the season.’

‘What was it like? A much finer sight than this?’

‘We cannot, of course, compete in appointments—the Hunt servants so neatly got up; the huntsman such a picture, with his weather-beaten face, and the whips so smart and trim. Then the grey-haired squires on their favourite hunters give such a tone to the affair. But we have good horses out to-day, including yours and mine, which would not be unnoticed, even that dear Fergus. He wonders what it is all about.’

‘And the scenery and the belongings?’

‘Well, a lawn in front of a grand historic mansion that has been besieged more than once since the Wars of the Roses must have the _pas_ over anything in Australia. Still, as for scenery, it was often tame, and scarcely came up to that.’

Here she pointed with her whip as the hounds spread eagerly over a grassy flat immediately beneath them. They had been for some time imperceptibly ascending a slope.

The mists which had shrouded the mountain-tops had rolled back, and a panorama of grand and striking beauty stood revealed. Westward lay the lake, a silver sheet, amid the green slopes which marked its shores. On the south rose sheer and grim the enormous darkened cone which terminated the mountain range which they had approached. The released effulgence of the morning sun magically transfigured to purple masses the outline of the curving ridge, before crowning it with a tremulous aureole. Trending westerly, the level ground increased in width, until, but for its groves of eucalyptus, it might have been dignified by the name of plain. This gradually merged into a region of park-like forest.

‘What a charming place for a gallop!’ said Christabel Rockley. ‘I do so hope the fox, or whatever he is, will be found here. I should not be afraid to ride fast over this nice, clear country.’

‘It is almost too easy,’ said Miss Fane, drawing her bridle-rein, as she watched old Tom closely. ‘I like forest and range work, I must confess. But we must look out, or the hounds will be away, and we shall be left lamenting like so many Lord Ullins.’

The girl’s instinct had not deceived her. She had ridden many a day at her father’s side, when the shy cattle of a neglected herd, ready for headlong speed at the snapping of a twig, needed quick following to live with. Keeping her eye on old Tom, she had noted the signs of an approaching start.

A leading hound ran along a cattle track, and giving tongue, went off at score. Three or four comrades of position followed suit, and in the shortest possible time the whole pack was away, running with a breast high scent.

‘The black dingo for a thousand,’ said old Tom to the Master, as he hustled Boney alongside of the roan cob. ‘I seen Hobart Gay Lass put up her bristles the minit she settled to the scent. It’s a true tongue the slut has, and I’ll back her against ’ere a dog of the English lot, though there’s good hounds among them. We’ll have the naygur to-day, if there’s vartue in a good scent and a killing pack.’

‘Then you know him, Tom?’

‘By coorse, I do; he killed Strawberry’s calf, and didn’t I go down on my two knees and swear I’d have the heart’s blood of him.’

‘Then how did you manage to lay the hounds on him here—I thought he was a lake dog?’

‘Divil a doubt of it; but I seen him here one day, just under the range, pinning a “joey,” and I kept lavin’ a bit of mate for him, just to make him trot over regular—maybe a bullock’s heart or a hock of a heifer’s calf, maybe a bird I’d shot. Dingoes is mortial fond of birds. I seen his tracks here yesterday, and med sure he’d be here wonst more, for the last time, and here he is forenint us now—glory be to God!’

‘Then he’s safe to be a straight goer?’

‘It’s twelve mile to the lake, and he’ll make for the little rise, where there’s rocks, just before you come to Long Point. If he’s pushed there, he’ll maybe turn to the Limestone Hill, at the back of the big house, where there’s caves—my curse on thim—and then good-bye.’

‘This is pretty country, if there was more fencing,’ said the Master. ‘Perhaps it is as well, though, as there are so many ladies out. The hounds are running like smoke.’

The nature of the ground at this point of the hunt was such as to admit of all being reasonably well up. True, the pack went at considerable speed. The scent was burning, and there were no small enclosures, as in ‘Merrie England,’ to check the more delicate damsels or inexperienced horsemen. The sward was sound and firm, the tall-stemmed eucalypti stood far apart in the southern forest-park. Bob Clarke and the Benmohr division, Hampden and the Gambiers, rode easily in front. Rosamond, Miss Rockley, Miss Fane, and a few other ladies, who were exceptionally well mounted, had no difficulty in keeping their places.

‘So this is fox-hunting!’ said Miss Fane. ‘That is, so far as we can have the noble sport without the fox. It is nice to see the hounds running so compactly. And I like the musical composite cry with its harmonies and variations.’

‘This dingo,’ said Wilfred, who had established himself at her bridle-rein, ‘is running very straight and fast. If he makes for the range behind the house, we shall see him and have a little fencing too.’

‘I don’t object to a jump or two,’ said the young lady, ‘if they are not too stiff. This is the sort of pace that enables one to look about. But I should like to see the hounds work a little more.’

While this conversation was proceeding, every one was at their ease, and voted the sport most delightful. The front rankers were sailing along, while the hounds were carrying a good head and forcing Master Dingo along at a pace which prevented him from availing himself of one or two hiding-places.

However, just as Rosamond had compared herself to the Landgrave, in the German ballad, sweeping on in endless chase, with a horseman on either hand—St. Maur on the right on a coal-black steed, and Fred Churbett on the left on the rejoicing Duellist—wondering how long they were going to have such a pleasant line of country, through which Fergus was luxuriously striding as if he had commenced the first part of a fifty-mile stage, the scene changed. The confident pack checked, and commenced a circular performance which betrayed indecision, if not failure of scent.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Miss Fane. ‘Is the whole thing over? Was the dingo a myth?’

‘We have overrun the scent, Miss Fane,’ said Wilfred with dignity. ‘The hounds have checked, but we shall hit it off again in a few minutes.’

He had hardly finished speaking when Miss Fane, who, if it was her first day after hounds, had ‘kept her side’ well up for many a day in early girlhood, ‘when they wheeled the wild scrub cattle at the yard,’ took her horse by the head, with a rapid turn towards two couple of hounds that she had descried racing down the side of a creek. A neat jump, following old Tom over the narrow but deep water-course at a bend, placed her on easy terms with the pack. A new line of country lay spread out before them at right angles to their late course.

The hounds had now settled again to the scent. Another ‘blind’ creek, waterless, but respectable in the jumping way, lay in front. At this Miss Fane’s horse went so fast and took so extensive a fly, that Wilfred felt himself compelled to be hard on his Camerton chestnut and ride, if he intended to keep his place in the front alongside of this ‘leading lady,’ as Miss Fane’s nerve and experience entitled her to become.

But the rest of the field were not doomed to defeat and extinction, although Miss Fane’s knowledge of emergencies had enabled her to fix the moment when the scent was recovered.

Scarcely did the hounds swing to their line, for the dingo had turned, at right angles, in the creek, and so occasioned the outrunning of the scent, when Forbes, Ardmillan, Neil Barrington, and Fred Churbett were seen coming up hand over hand. Miss Effingham’s ‘dear Fergus’ was slipping along with his wonted graceful ease, and permitting the interchange of a few sentences with Mr. Churbett, who rode at her bridle-rein. Hampden, with whom was Beatrice, on Allspice, was riding wide of the hounds, but only waiting for serious business to show what manner of work he and The Caliph were wont to cut out for themselves. Bob Clarke, wonderful to relate, was _not_ among the first flight. It could not have been the fault of Desborough—faster than any horse in the hunt—and as to jumping, why, he had a man on his back who was a sufficient answer to any reflections on that score.

‘May I niver be d——d!’ exclaimed old Tom, ‘if the varmint isn’t going straight for the paddock! One would think he was a rale fox, to see the divilment of him. Sure it must be the hounds puts them up to all the villainy. Well, the bigger the lape, the more divarshion.’

Satisfying himself with this view of the matter, old Tom watched with interest the field gradually approaching a large outer paddock, which lay at some distance from the house. It was the ordinary two-railed fence of the colonists, and though fairly stiff, not formidable to any one who intended going.

The hounds slipped quietly under the lower rail, and in another moment were racing, unchecked, along the flat which it enclosed. But with the field, this obstacle commenced to alter the state of matters.

The first flight, it is true, came rattling round a point of timber at any number of miles an hour, when they encountered this obstacle, to the sardonic entertainment of Tom Glendinning, who had eased his horse to see the effect. Wilfred and Miss Fane were still leading when the line of fence suddenly appeared. Wilfred, from his knowledge of the country, was aware that it was coming, and had prepared his companion for it.

‘It is not very high,’ she said. ‘We are going so charmingly that I could not bear to be stopped. Emigrant here’—and she fondly patted the dark brown neck of the adamantine animal she rode—‘is good for anything in a moderate way.’

‘It is scarcely four feet,’ said Wilfred, ‘but don’t go at it if you are not quite sure. We can go round.’

‘I’m not going round, I can promise you,’ said the girl, with a clear light glowing in her steadfast eyes. ‘Oh, here it is. Two-railed fences are not much. Besides, we are leading, and must show a good example.’

Whereupon Emigrant’s head was turned towards the nearest panel. The well-bred horses quickened their speed slightly; Emigrant shook his arched neck as both cleared the rail with little more trouble than a sheep-hurdle. As they alighted on the sound greensward, Miss Fane was sitting perfectly square with her hands down, just a little backward in her seat, but without the slightest sign of haste or discomposure.

‘Well done,’ said Wilfred. ‘Prettily jumped. Emigrant has been at it before.’

‘He has been at most things,’ said Miss Fane, looking fondly at her experienced palfrey. ‘He had all kinds of work before I managed to make private property of him; but nobody rides him but me now, and I think I shall manage to keep his old legs right for years to come.’

The next advancing pairs were not quite so secure of their horses’ abilities, and a slight uncertainty took place. It was all very well for Miss Fane to say the fence was not much; but rails are rails. When they happen to be new and unyielding, though scarcely four feet in height, a mistake causes a severe fall. There is no _scrambling_ through an Australian fence, as a rule. It must be jumped clean or let alone.

Fergus, the unapproachable, was in good sooth no great performer over anything stiff. Peerless as a hackney in all other respects, he was not up to much across country; nor had he been required hitherto, in the houndless state of the land, to do aught in that line. Nevertheless, Rosamond, fired by the example of Miss Fane, and inspirited by the apparent ease with which Emigrant negotiated the obstacle, would have doubtless run the risk, trusting to Fergus’s gentlemanlike feeling to see her safe. But all risk of danger was obviated by Bob Clarke’s promptitude.

That chivalrous youth, knowing all about Red King, as indeed he did about every horse in the land, was aware that he was a difficult horse to ride at timber. ‘Handsome as paint,’ was the general verdict, but he needed two pairs of hands in company.

On this occasion the fact of there being other ambitious animals in front, and the ‘great club of the unsuccessful’ in his rear, had roused his temper.

The fair Christabel was by no means deficient in courage, but to-day Red King had been too much for her. He had fretted himself into foam, and her pretty hands were sore with holding the ‘reefing’ horse, whose mouth became more and more callous.

‘Don’t you ride him at that fence, Miss Christabel,’ said Bob, in a tone of entreaty. ‘He’ll go through it as sure as you’re alive. I know him.’

The girl’s face grew a shade paler, but she set her teeth, and, pointing with her whip to Miss Fane, who was sailing away in ease and luxury on the farther side, said, ‘I _must_; they’re all going at it.’

‘Very well,’ said he—mentally reprobating Red King’s mouth and temper, and it may be the obstinacy of young women—‘keep behind me, and we’ll be next.’

Upon this the wily Bob shot out from the leading ranks, closely followed by the wilful Christabel, whose horse, indeed, left her no option. Sending Desborough at a hog-backed rail at the rate of forty miles an hour, with a reprehensibly loose rein, that indignant animal declined to rise, and, chesting the rail, snapped it like a reed. As Master Bob lay back in the saddle with his head nearly on his horse’s tail, he had the pleasure of seeing Christabel pop pleasantly over the second rail, followed by the other ladies, excepting Mrs. Snowden, who faced the unbroken fence with considerable resolution. As for the attendant cavaliers, they negotiated it pleasantly enough, with the exception of a baulk or two and one fall. Indeed, another rail gave way soon after, making a gap through which the rear-guard, variously mounted and attired, streamed gallantly.

As for Bob Clarke, Red King had managed to run up to Desborough—(great turn of speed that old King)—and he fancied he saw in the marvellous eyes a recognition of his unusual mode of easing a stiff leap.

The next happened to be one rare in Australia, having its origin in Mr. Effingham’s British reminiscences. A fence was needed in the track of a marshy inlet from the lake. A ditch with a sod wall thrown up on the farther side made a boundary sufficing for all the needs of an enclosure, yet requiring no carriage of material.

‘We need not make it quite so broad or deep,’ he said, ‘as the ox fences in Westmeath; but if I can get a couple of hedgers and ditchers, I shall leave my memorial here, to outlast Dick’s timber skeletons.’

Two wandering navvies, on the look-out for dam-making, were fortunately discovered. The result of their labours was ‘The Squire’s Ditch,’ as the unusual substitute was henceforth named. It certainly was a relief after the austerity of posts and rails proper. In a few places the ditch had been filled in and a partial gap made in the sod wall. At any rate horse and rider would all go at it with light hearts. So, with the exception of Wilfred and Miss Fane—the latter having picked out the worst place she could see—everybody treated themselves indulgently; hit the wall, or scrambled over the ditch, just as their horses chose to comport themselves, and rode forward rejoicing.

The hounds have now lengthened out, while their leaders are racing, with lowered sterns, at a pace that leaves the heavy brigade an increasing distance behind. The flat is broken only by an occasional sedgy interval where the fall to the lake has not been sufficient. For the same reason the creek, or natural outlet of the watershed, is, though not very wide, less unequal as to depth than are most Australian watercourses, while the perpendicular banks show how the winter rains of ages have channelled the rich black soil.

‘We have something like a water-jump here,’ said Wilfred to his companion, as they watched the hounds disappear and climb up, giving tongue as they scour forward with renewed energy. ‘It is not so very wide, but the sides are steep. If your horse does not know that sort of jump, we had better follow it down to the ford, near the lake.’

‘Black Mountain is full of small rivers and treacheries of all sorts,’ said the girl. ‘A horse that can go there can go anywhere, I _think_.’ Sending Emigrant at it pretty fast, he lowered his head slightly and ‘flew it like a bird.’

By the time they approached the Deep Creek, as old Tom averred it had been christened ever since he knew Warbrok, the greater part of the field seemed aware that no common obstacle was before them.

‘See here now, Mr. Churbett,’ said old Tom. ‘It’s an ugly lape unless you know where to take it, and some of the ladies might get hurted. You make for the point half a mile down, where ye see thim green reeds. There’s a little swamp fills it up there, and ye can wade through easy. More by token, I’m thinkin’, the hounds will turn to ye before ye cross the three-railed fence into the horse paddock.’

Mr. Churbett at once made sail for the point indicated, successfully piloting, with Forbes and a few men who were more chivalrous than keen, the feminine division. He was followed by the greater portion of the rear-guard, who, seeing that there was an obstacle to free discussion in front, wisely turned when they did. Hamilton, Argyll, and Hampden rode at the yawner with varied success.

As for Bob Clarke, seeing that it was impossible to adopt his last method of simplifying matters, he persuaded Miss Rockley to gallop up the creek with him, on the off-chance of finding a crossing, which they did eventually, but so far up that they were nearly thrown out altogether.

We cannot claim for the sheep-killing denizen of the Australian waste, mysteriously placed on our continent a century in advance of the merino, the wondrous powers of Reynard the Great. But in the pace which enables him to bring to shame an inferior greyhound, and in the endurance which keeps him ahead of a fair pack of foxhounds, as well as in his ardent love of poultry, he undoubtedly does resemble ‘the little tyrant of the fields.’

The distance the black dingo had already come was considerable, the pace decidedly good. The long slopes, all with an upward tendency, began to tell. When the fence of the home-paddock was reached, the farther corner of which impinged upon a steep spur of the main range, the bolt of the gallant quarry was nearly shot.

He was viewed by Tom crawling under the lower rail; an enthusiastic view-holloa rang out from the old man. One more fence and a kill was certain, unless his last effort sufficed to land him within reach of one of the ‘gibbah-gunyahs’ (or rock caves) which the aboriginals and their canine friends had inhabited apparently from remote ages.

As the field ranged up to the horse-paddock fence, it was seen to be by no means so moderate a task as the other post and rails. Old Dick, who had superintended its erection, had been careful that it should be one of the best pieces of work in the district,—substantial, of full height, and with solid posts nearly two feet in the ground. Hence it loomed before the hunt fully four feet six inches in height, with top-rails which forbade all chance of cracking or carrying out.

Fortunately for the ladies and a large proportion of the sterner sex, who would have to ‘jump or go home,’ Wilfred knew of ‘slip-rails’ a little more than a hundred yards from where the quick eyes of old Tom had marked the dingo steal through.

‘I have no doubt you would try it, Miss Fane,’ said Wilfred, who marked with admiration the game sparkle in his companion’s eye, as her gaze ranged calmly over the barrier; ‘but it is a high, stiff fence, and dangerous for a lady. At any rate, as your temporary guardian, I must forbid your taking it, if you would defer to my control.’

‘Certainly, oh, certainly, and many thanks,’ said the girl, blushing slightly; ‘it is very good of you to take care of me. But what are we to do? We _can’t_ miss the finish after this delightful run.’

‘Certainly not. Do you see the road to the right of us? There is a slip-rail on the track, which I fancy will be patronised. Follow me.’

Slip-rails are contemned by advanced pastoralists, but they stood the Lake William Hunt in good stead on this occasion. As they rode to the opening, Miss Fane said:

‘Pray leave the middle rail up. It will be the last jump, and I daresay the other ladies will agree with me.’

‘Very well,’ said Wilfred. ‘I need not get off.’

Riding up to the fence, he lifted out the shifting end of the stout round rail, and, allowing it to fall to the ground, cantered back to his fair companion.

‘Now then,’ she said, ‘see how prettily you will take this, Master Emigrant! It is quite stiff, though not very high.’

In truth the rail, as high as a sheep-hurdle, was slightly hog-backed, and strong enough to have capsized a buffalo.

‘You will go first, of course,’ said Wilfred, turning his horse’s head in the same direction.

The nice old hackney, albeit his best years had been spent as a stock-horse amid the unfair country of the Black Mountain run, was within a shade of thoroughbred. He went at the jump with his hind legs well under him, and, rising at exactly the proper moment, popped over with so little effort or disturbance of seat that Miss Fane might have held a glass of water in her whip-hand.

If she had turned her head she might not have been so self-possessed; for, the moment her back was turned, Wilfred Effingham, foreseeing that the talent would be sure to ride this, the only sensational fence of the run, turned his horse’s head to the big three-railer.

He rode an upstanding chestnut five-year-old, which he had selected as a colt from the Benmohr stud. For some time past he had employed himself in ‘making’ him, a pleasant task to a lover of horses. He had given the resolute youngster much schooling over logs, rails, and any kind of fence which came handy, avoiding those which were not unyielding. He was aware that no more dangerous idea can be contracted by a timber-jumper, than that he can break through anything, the first new fence that he meets being likely fatally to undeceive him. He flattered himself that Troubadour, from repeated raps, would take care to rise high enough over any fence.

At the moment he set him going he saw Argyll and Churbett, with Hampden, St. Maur, and all the ‘no denial’ division converging on the slip-rails, having witnessed Miss Fane’s disappearance through them.

Whether Troubadour was over-anxious to regain Emigrant, cannot be known. But he went at the fence too fast, hit the top-rail a tremendous bang, and rolled over into the paddock, narrowly escaping a somersault across his master.

He, however, was lucky enough to be thrown, by the mere impetus of the fall, clear of his horse. Jumping to his feet with the alacrity of youth, he caught the bridle-rein of the astonished Troubadour, who stood staring and shaking, just in time to see The Caliph sail over the high fence with a great air of ease and authority, followed by the others, among whom Churbett’s horse hit the fence hard, ‘but no fall.’ The ladies followed Miss Fane’s example and negotiated the middle rail successfully, as Wilfred jumped into his saddle, and sending his spurs into the unlucky Troubadour, rejoined his charge without further delay.

That young lady had pulled up, and was looking at the scene of the disaster with an anxious expression. Her face had assumed a paler hue, and her hands fidgeted with the bridle-rein.

‘I am _so_ glad you are not hurt,’ she said. ‘I thought all sorts of things till I saw you get up and mount.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Wilfred, with a grateful inflection in his voice. ‘It was very awkward of Troubadour; but accidents will happen, and it will teach him to lift his legs another time. But we must ride for it now; we have been in the front so far. Ha! the hounds are turning to us; they will have Master Dingo before he reaches the cliffs.’

Another mile and the dark quadruped, still at a stretching wolf-gallop, was decidedly nearer the leading hounds, whose bristles began to rise, ominous of blood. Old Tom, waving his cap, cheered them on as he rode rejoicingly forward on the wiry, unflinching grey. Slower and more laboured became the pace of the aboriginal canine. Before him was the cliff, upon the lower tier of which, could he have crawled, lay sanctuary. But in vain he scans eagerly the frowning masses of sandstone, denuded by the storms of ages. In vain he glances fiercely back at the remorseless pack, showing his glittering teeth. His doom is sealed. With a half-turn and a vicious snap, in which his teeth meet like a steel-trap through Cruiser’s neck, he confronts destiny. The next moment there is a confused heap of struggling, tearing hounds, a few seconds of dumb, despairing resistance, and the mothers of the herd are avenged.

Miss Fane turns away her head and joins the group of ‘first families,’ by this time enabled to be in respectably at the death.

Old Tom in due time appeared with the brush of the dingo, which he held on high for inspection. It was not unlike that of the true Reynard, though larger and fuller. It had also a white tag. The old man, advancing to Miss Fane’s side, thus spoke:

‘The Masther said I was to give ye the brush, Miss; it’s well ye desarve it. Sure I’d like to have seen ye with the Blazers. My kind sarvice to ye, and wishin’ ye the hoith of good fortune.’

‘Well done, Tom!’ said Argyll, ‘you have made a very neat speech; and we all congratulate Miss Fane upon her very spirited riding to-day. As you say, she well deserves the brush, and I hope she will grace many more of our meets.’

‘We must send the “cap” round for the huntsman, Tom,’ said Hampden, ‘who found such a straight-goer for the first run of the Lake William Hounds, and hit off the scent so neatly after the check.’

As he spoke he lifted it from the old man’s grey head, and placing a sovereign in it, rode along the ranks. He returned it with such a collection of coin as the old man, long accustomed to cheques and ‘orders,’ had not seen for years.

‘It’s fortunate the fox—the dingo, I mean,’ said Wilfred, ‘chose to make for the cliffs, instead of the other end of the lake. We should have had a terrible distance to ride home, though not in the dark, as one often was in the old country. Now, you must all come in, as we are so near The Chase. We can put up everybody who hasn’t pressing work to do at home.’

The day was done. The hunt was over, with the first pack of hounds that had ever been followed amid the green pastures which bordered the Great Lake. It was by no means the last. And indeed a hunter, bred and broken by one of the very men who then aided to establish that traditional sport, was fated, when shipped to England, to be one of the few well up in the quickest thing that the Pytchley saw that season, to be chronicled in Bell, and to win enduring renown for Australian horses and Australian riders. But that day, with much of Fate’s glad or sorrowful doings, was far in the unborn future. So the band of friends and neighbours returned to The Chase, pleased with themselves, with the day, and the feats performed, and above all, congratulating Squire Effingham upon the triumphant opening meet of the season.

Not all the meets were so well attended. But the grand fact remained that, at regular intervals, dawn saw the dappled beauties trooping forth at the heels of old Tom and the Master across the dewy meadows, beneath the century-old trees of the primeval forest. Still rang out the music, dear to Howard Effingham’s soul, when the scent lay well in the soft, cloudy, autumnal mornings. Still were there, occasionally, incidents of hunting spirit and feats of horsemanship worthy of the traditional glories of the ne’er-forgotten Fatherland.