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

by Rosa Graul

A slight inclining motion of the head was Edith’s only answer. She almost feared to look at her father, and when she did so she found the strong man had turned deathly pale; his lips twitching nervously, and presently with a gasping sound came from his lips:

“Wilbur! Wilbur!” and his head sank upon his hand, in which attitude he remained a long while, then slowly, without again speaking, he rose, donned overcoat and muffler and went out into the crisp, wintry, morning air. His manner was a mystery. The girls looked at each other and shook their heads.

In the evening when they again met at the family table he looked more like himself but was strangely quiet, not at all like the Elmer Wallace who was wont to carry himself with an air of such importance and assurance. Even his wife took note of the matter and inquired as to the reason, but received no answer for her pains.

Several days thus passed by. Regularly each evening after supper a span of horses with a dashing cutter drove up to the door; a youthful driver would spring therefrom and would carefully tuck the waiting girls therein and drive away, returning always a little before midnight. Then there was a change. Beside the boyish figure a more manly one had taken its place. Tall and well built, every movement of that form betokened health and strength. At such times the face of another and older man could be seen at the window, watching the figure of the younger man as he sprang to meet the girls. Eagerly he listened to catch the sound of the voice speaking words of greeting to the sisters, watched him tuck the robes closely about them, heard his deep-toned laughter mingle with their silvery ripples, and in a few seconds more they would disappear. Long hours would intervene, but when the tinkling bells announced their return, as though it had been watching for their advent, the face at the window was always there, until the good nights were spoken and the merry music of the bells was lost in the distance.

But Mr. Wallace never asked for his son; though deep down in his heart a longing was making itself manifest. Now that he knew that his first born was once more near him in the same city, to look into his eyes, to clasp him to his bosom, to have a share in his life, was a desire that was daily growing upon him. Yet he could not bring himself to sue for it. Day by day the longing grew stronger until it became almost unbearable. This longing was the more strongly felt when he glanced at his younger children, the result of his second marriage. All of them, the whole four, had not been sent, this season, to boarding school, as they were not at all well, and they had made life anything but pleasant for the rest of the household. The eldest boy, Homer, the father had hoped would soon have been ready to graduate, but the lad showed an unaccountable aversion towards his books. He was surly, sullen and irritable, with a languor of manner that caused the parents to fear that he might be breeding some fever. The others were no better. Elmer was hollow-eyed and nervous. The girls, Hattie and Aleda, were fretful and hysterical to a degree that made life a misery to those about them.

The parents were anxious and fearful, pampering them in mistaken kindness, thereby making perfect tyrants of them all. Only Edith and Hilda would not submit to the whimsical demands of the younger children, and when Mrs. Wallace complained and lamented about the ill health of her darlings Edith would reply:

“Insist on it that they all take exercises every day—exercise of a nature that will tax their strength, and ere long you will see a change.”

“Yes, I am sure there would be a change. You certainly are the most heartless girl I have ever met. Compel my sick children to work? I believe it would please you if they should die, for that is what such a course would result in, I am sure.”

Mr. Wallace would look at them, then at the bright and cheerful faces of his eldest daughters. Then he would remember the face and figure of the stalwart young man whose movements he had of late been watching from the window and would wonder how it was that the children of the delicate Erna should be healthy and robust while these younger children, whose mother was apparently so strong and healthy, should be so delicate, apparently candidates for early graves. More than ever he longed to be reconciled to his first born. But his stubborn will would not bend. Had Wilbur come to him he would have welcomed him with open arms, but that he should go to Wilbur his iron will and stubborn pride would not permit. So he stifled the voice of his heart, only he could not cast out the longing therein, and day by day he grew more restless, dissatisfied and irritable while the state of affairs at home grew daily more unpleasant.

One day, it was clear and frosty, Mr. Wallace was on his way home to dinner, walking along at a brisk pace. Part of his way lay along the railway track, when at a short distance ahead of him he saw a boyish figure in which he recognized his son Homer. The boy was walking at a very slow pace with downcast eyes seemingly forgetful of his surroundings when the rumbling of the wheels of an approaching train was heard. The boy however, paid no heed. Mr. Wallace gave a cry of warning but the boy was so lost in thought that he never heard. The train was approaching at an alarming rate of speed.