Hilda's Home: A Story of Woman's Emancipation

by Rosa Graul

After that, Imelda had more duties to perform, heavier burdens to bear. Contrary to what might have been expected, her mother refused to be comforted, and became even more fretful and irritable than before. Imelda moved about calm, pale and tearless, but with oh! such an aching weary heart. But never a word passed her pale lips—for who would have understood that ceaseless pain—and for which she was reproached as being heartless and unfeeling.

Although Herbert Ellwood had always been able to command fair wages, there had been nothing laid aside for a rainy day. His wife never had been what is known as a good housewife. She believed in taking the things the gods provide and let the morrow take care of itself. So when he was no longer able to follow his daily occupation, they were without means. His long and lingering illness had plunged them heavily into debt, the burden of which rested solely on Imelda’s slender shoulders. And—they must live! Both sisters found work behind the counters of a dry goods emporium. Cora grumbling and daily declaring that it was a shame, and that she was determined to make a change as soon as a chance offered. Frank too, was told that it was time he placed his shoulder to the wheel, as the combined efforts of two girls were hardly sufficient to support a family of five, for there was another little girl of two years: “Baby Nellie” she was called. But Frank would put his hands in his pockets, whistle the latest air he had heard at some low “variety show,” bestow a kick upon the frolicking kitten, make a grimace at baby Nellie and walk out as unconcerned as though there were no such thing in the world as the worry and trouble of procuring food for hungry mouths and clothes for freezing backs, or paying rent to keep a miserable roof over their heads. Imelda’s face would perhaps grow a shade paler and the trembling lips compress more tightly, but farther than that she gave no sign. From her mother it would generally bring forth a flood of tears.

Imelda would feel as though a cold hand was clutching at her throat as she watched her mother. Poor mother! What had life brought to her? It had been one long succession of trials, sorrow and woes without the ability to cope with them. Once, and only once, Imelda ventured to gently wind her arm about her. With an impatient movement the poor woman had brushed it aside, accompanied with an irritable, “Don’t!” After that Imelda never ventured to approach her again. Her sensitive spirit had been deeply wounded, but she also knew that her mother could not by any possibility understand her. So she tried hard not to bear her any ill will. She eagerly sought for every excuse she could think of for the mother whose life she knew had been made up more of thorns than roses.

So, the weeks and months went by in a weary routine, but bringing with them new troubles and fresh sorrows. Frank, who had persistently refused to put his hands to any kind of work, had idled away his time with companions who were wholly as bad if not worse than himself. Under the leadership of one more bold than the rest they had for some time been perpetrating deeds of petty larceny until they were caught in the act. The most of them were arrested and a term of work house stared them in the face. Frank, however, with one other succeeded in absconding. This was the news that was brought home to the despairing mother and grief-stricken sister. Never again had the poor mother seen or heard aught of him. They knew that he possessed a passionate love for the water and they felt sure that he had gone to sea.

And yet another trouble awaited them. Cora, who was now sixteen years of age, and who gave promise of beauty in the future, though as yet undeveloped, had formed the acquaintance of a graceless scamp, fair of face, with but the possession of a decidedly insipid smile—a brainless fop with an oily tongue. The willful girl had been meeting him for some time before Imelda became conscious of the fact. Long and earnestly did she strive to reason with the refractory sister, pointing out to her the many defects of this very objectionable lover.

But Cora had always been obstinate, and the years had brought no change in this respect. In plain words, she told Imelda to mind her own business. A short time after she disappeared—leaving a note stating she had “gone to live with one with whom she could have a little peace,” as she expressed it.

For some time the mother and sister were unable to trace her whereabouts, but one evening, some six weeks later, Imelda had an errand to another portion of the city. Returning about ten o’clock she hailed a car and presently found herself seated opposite her runaway sister, and with her the partner of her flight. To judge from the manner of both there was little happiness or love or peace between the couple. Even to an ordinary observer it would have been apparent from the sulky and extremely careless outward appearance of the two that Cora’s love dream had been cut very short.

After the first shock Imelda conquered her fear of risking an altercation in so public a place and seated herself at Cora’s side. There was something in the defiant attitude of the girl that caused her heart to stand still with a nameless dread, but she forced herself to speak.

“Cora,” she said, “are you married?” Cora paled, and in her companion’s eye was a wicked flash. A hesitating “Yes,” fell from the lips of the wayward sister. Intuitively Imelda felt that she was telling a falsehood, and her heart sank within her. She understood that the willful girl was leading a life of deliberate shame. Only a short time until she would be cast off, and then——?

Imelda could not bear to contemplate the “then!” With a sound like rushing waters in her ears, she arose from her seat and staggered toward the entrance of the car. She must get away from the near presence of the twain, out into the open air. She felt that she must suffocate in there. How she reached home she never knew, but that night sleep was a stranger to her eyes. The next day she went about her work a trifle paler, her footsteps a trifle slower. While her mother fretted over the child that could leave her in such a fashion without one thought of the pain she was inflicting on loving hearts, she never heeded the drooping gait and the pained expression upon the face of her eldest child.