HIL.
While the two steamers are ploughing their way to Brisbane, the one with
the boys, the other with the girls, on board, it will not be amiss if
the narrative pause for a moment for the purpose of presenting the
reader with an ampler picture of the singular personality of Hil.
Hilda Mannahill was the daughter of the late Samuel Mannahill, who died
when she was ten years old. Three months later she lost her mother. Few
men were more respected and beloved than Sam Mannahill, as he was
familiarly called. He was a self-made man, who had landed in the colony
in the early days, and by dint of hard work and upright dealing had
become very wealthy. At his death he left behind him not only a vast
fortune, which is a comparatively common circumstance, but also an
honoured name, which is less so. After his wife's death the whole of
his wealth passed to his daughter, Hilda, who at the time of our story
was twenty-three years of age. Hilda would be best described as a jolly
girl with no humbug about her. Simple in tastes, unaffected in manner,
strikingly self-reliant, and as straight as a die in disposition, her
inherited strength of character had been fostered and fortified at the
expense of all the weaknesses of her sex, by the manner of her
upbringing. Yet, withal, she was purely womanly. In appearance she was
tall and fair, her figure slender but firmly-built; she was lissom in
all her movements and a general air of independence, in harmony with the
frankness of her speech and the directness of her gaze, hung around her.
She was a large-hearted girl and no one but her banker knew of the
thousands of pounds that were quietly distributed amongst the charities
of the city every year: a decided eccentricity, and most directly
opposed to the current method, which consists in having the name of the
donor published in the leading papers, to be cabled over to England and
brought at any cost under the notice of Her Majesty, in case there might
be a spare title going begging. Had she wanted a title she could have
had one, for it was well-known that a certain sprig of the nobility,
when on a visit to the colonies, had graciously decided to make her and
her fortune his own. "She is not much to look at, but her fortune is
good," he had said to his friend, the Governor, who was complaining that
he had given up his home and friends to spend five years penal servitude
amongst those ignorant Australian savages. A few days after, therefore,
the Honourable--it would be unfair to give his name--presented himself
to Hilda, and was about to offer her his hand and heart, when he was
stopped midway with the remark--"I am really very busy to-day. If it is
a situation on one of my stations that you want, I will be pleased to
mention your name to my manager, for I do not meddle with those matters
myself." It is not known if he ever consulted the manager.
She now owned three large stations, besides city property and countless
investments. The management of all this she had taken into her own hands
on her coming of age. She then purchased Blue Gums, the handsome mansion
in which we have seen her, where she shocked and scandalised Society for
the moment by entertaining on her own account. Society salved its
conscience by holding aloof from her for a few weeks, then thought
better of it, and she was now one of the most prominent entertainers in
Sydney. At Government House she was not a frequent visitor, the foppery
and toadyism there were revolting to her. As she said, bluntly, "There's
too much hypocrisy there for me!"
As a schoolgirl she was somewhat tom-boyish and a recognised leader in
the mild forms of mischief open to the limited capabilities of young
ladies' academies. Memories of an heroic pillow-fight, in which she
figured as a leader, still linger among her schoolfellows. But her
happiest times were the holidays spent in the rough enjoyments of
Australian station life.
Life on a station is an interesting phase of colonial existence. There
are stations, of course, in these degenerate days, where a great deal of
style and vulgar "side" is put on; where the house-servants are in
livery; the dinner is served on silver plates, in empty mimicry of a
ducal mansion; where all travelling sprigs of nobility are welcomed by
the proprietor (who was probably a costermonger before his emigration)
to whom he is glad to introduce his daughter with the scarcely-veiled
recommendation that she has fifty thousand to carry in her hand to the
right man, provided he has good English blue blood in his veins and none
of the inferior colonial trickle. Fortunately for Hilda, she spent her
holidays on a typical Australian station, managed on Australian lines,
by an Australian owner, with Australian hands. Here she became an expert
horsewoman and her fearless nature had full play in its stirring daily
work, of which she always took her fair share. Her bosom friend and
fellow-conspirator at school was Susan Tyton, the daughter of old Tyton,
the owner of the station "Cattle Downs," and the two girls invariably
contrived to be there during the annual muster, in the work of which she
had been known to perform the duties of an experienced stockman.
May had once listened, with vivid interest, to the following description
by an old stockrider of one of her feats. He said--"I can see old Tyton
now, coming out of the house, followed by the two girls, his daughter
and Miss Mannahill. 'Now then, girls, if you are ready,' says old Tyton:
and we bring them two of the horses. They have no ladies' saddles, no
pommels to hold on to, only just a man's saddle with one stirrup, and
it was a treat to see them spring into them and settle themselves down
and quietly wait orders. They used to dress in short habit and leggings.
The stockmen take one direction, and Tyton with his party take another,
at full gallop, a pace they keep up for a mile or more. There is a big
double in front of them and Tyton calls a halt, but the girls either do
not or will not hear and, tightening their reins and over--up--over!
they both fly the two high fences and calmly turn their horses' heads
and open the gates for the others. They meet old Tyton's severe look
with a smiling--'Don't be cross, we won't do it again. It was too
tempting.' The old chap is too proud of them to say more than warn them
not to take too much out of their horses. 'Gad!' adds the old fellow,
'I'd like some of them fashionable ladies who talk of their riding to
see you two.' After a couple of hours' riding, they come across some
black boys who have been keeping the cattle from going back to the
hills. They now know that the outside boundary is reached. Fastened on
each of their saddles is a stock whip, which each now takes off, and a
few preliminary cracks are given. Fancy your town girls cracking and
handling a whip sixteen feet long! After a short halt for a spell, Tyton
himself gallops along the ranks and orders all to push on. That is the
signal for a general shout, cracking of whips, barking of dogs, and
yells from the niggers: soon there is one vast crowd of living animals
in front of them. Now and then a refractory beast breaks away and rushes
the ranks, but the horses are on the alert, and they soon round him in,
for there is no tugging required--you merely stick to your pigskin. Hil
and Susy are doing their share along the line and are about four hundred
yards apart. Presently a small mob, led on by a huge black bull, charges
right between them, and, followed by others, dashes back towards the
mountains. The girls' horses are after them, but do not, as you may
suppose, attempt to head them. They are quite content to ride alongside
the leader, who, being in good forward condition, begins to blow. A
signal is given, and both girls take a fierce grip of their whips, and
make direct for the bull; he is nonplussed, seeing two horses coming in
opposite directions and gradually slackens down until he comes to a
stop, and there he stands pawing the ground, his tail erect, his eyes
glistening. Like a stroke of lightning two horses pass him, and before
he knows what's up he feels a couple of severe cuts across his head.
This is repeated, and very soon he is glad to be allowed to turn back
and go on peacefully. The girls meet and begin chatting on some outside
topic, without a comment on their smart work. Gradually they draw closer
to the ranks, and are once more in the line, having brought back the
deserters. The big paddock, where the yards are, now comes in sight. It
is recognised by some of the older cattle who have been in before, and
they pull up and sniff the air, which means danger ahead, and puts the
whole mob on the _qui vive_. This is about the most anxious time of
all--to get a leader who will go easily: but should he turn obstinate
they would rush the line, and the whole week's work would have to be
repeated. Besides, in a mob like that, numbering close on ten thousand,
hundreds would be either killed or seriously injured in their mad
career. All seemed to recognise the dangerous situation, and Tyton
begins to get anxious, especially as some of the leaders are snorting
and shewing fight. Now it happened that that black bull and his party
were one of the mobs nearest to the entrance; there was a clear run
before them direct, so without consulting any one, the girls galloped
into the mob, which separated before them, and got on to that bull
again. A couple of smacks were enough. He was only too anxious to get
out of their way, and made straight for the run, followed by his mob.
The others followed suit, and the whole mob were in the big paddock.
While this was going on, Tyton was a picture. He neither spoke nor
moved. 'They're mad. They'll ruin all. Why, they've started the mob, the
others are following. Oh, it's all right. Hurrah, we are saved! Hurrah,
boys! Hurrah!' This is taken up, and even the black boys join in."
It was daring acts of this kind which had made Hilda the heroine of her
own and Cattle Downs stations. Many were the tales told by the station
hands of her feats of horsemanship and of the incorrigible buck-jumpers
she had tamed. Moreover, she could box any man on the station. There was
a certain amount of bush-romance attaching to her name, enough to have
made her a legendary figure had she lived in mediaeval times. And yet,
withal, she was a thorough girl of her century, educated and refined,
but endowed with a masculine strength and a rigid uprightness of
character. She was a genuine product of the land which gave her birth
and she shared with the fullest enthusiasm in the aspirations and ideals
of young Australia.