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.