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

by Rosa Graul

Then we come to a wing of this grand building which as yet was, and for a little while would be, closed. Not that this wing was not furnished or completed in every little detail, but the use to which it had been dedicated was not yet here. One or more hearts were waiting and hoping for love’s crown—in more than one breast the expectation was strong that at their knock the mystic door would open. What was this mysterious wing? The sanctum of the prospective mother!

Here she was to be surrounded by every beauty and comfort that art could supply and that money could buy. Wherever her eyes should turn they would rest upon representations of nature’s most perfect work—the nude human form! From the little dimpled cupid to the graceful undulating curves of the perfect woman and the outlines of the strength and beauty of the perfect man. Here was the workshop of art. The expectant mother would here be taught to mold the clay, to use the pallet and brush or in the quiet and rest secured her here she could learn to wield the pen. Her gems of thought would thus influence and mold the mentality of her unborn child, and would leap like flashes of sunshine to the world without. Here the builder of the coming child could withdraw to perfect rest and quiet, and here she could steep her soul in music and poetry, and the child which was asked for, which was longed for and demanded, as a pledge of love—the child which was begotten under holiest influences and gestated under such perfect surroundings—could such a child be anything else than ideal? anything less than divine? Released from all the old superstitions of right and wrong; seeing absolutely no wrong in holy love, with a conscience that waits not for sanction of church or state for the consummation of love, but follows only nature’s dictates,—who would dare to set the seal of impurity upon the product of such desires, such holy aspirations, such hopes and such longings! Gently, reverently, we close the door of this holy of holies until it opens again to the knock of the favored one.

Is there still more to tell? O yes much more, but space and language fail. We cannot tell you half there is to tell. There is the concert hall, the lecture hall, the dancing hall, the theater—all awaiting their turn to be unlocked, for hope is strong within the breasts of the little band that their number will not always be so small, but that in a few short years every room in the spacious building will have its occupant, every hall its throngs of visitors.

In still other rooms beyond, where baby-life is to thrive, the cooing, kicking, little mortals will not be wanting. Where the nurse, to whose care the little treasures are to be entrusted, fully understands the responsibility of her work. No gorging her little charges with sweets, souring their little stomachs; no dosing with soothing syrups and paregorics, sleeping potions, horrid teas and what not, dulling and stupefying their brains and destroying the natural brightness of the child’s mentality. O no! This nurse understands better what is for the good of the dimpled, rollicking morsels of humanity entrusted to her care, and as a result she can sleep soundly the long night through. The babes do not disturb her. The perfectly healthy treatment they receive lulls them to sleep and they lie coiled up like downy balls, the chubby fists resting on the dimpled cheeks. What heart would not such a picture gladden?

Are we anticipating again? The picture is so alluring that we cannot help letting our imagination wander, sometimes, but we must return and bring our friends to the now finished home.

It was the close of a sultry summer day, late in August, when Owen, stepping abruptly into the midst of our friends at the Westcot mansion, said:

“Our home is finished! When will you be ready to start for the new quarters?”

This question, though long expected, was not readily answered. All were eager to start, yet much was still to be attended to. The Westcot home had been sold, as it stood, with all its handsome furnishings. The younger Wallace children had lived, during the past year, almost wholly at the Westcots, though Mrs. Wallace had at first demurred not a little. But as the change in them grew daily more apparent she had fully consented, and had left them almost entirely to the management of her stepdaughters. In the spacious grounds of the Westcot place they were taught to play and romp and enjoy themselves in a style they had never known. The plan of sending them to boarding school had been given up. A boarding school education was fashionable—yes, but horribly demoralizing. It was to be purchased at the expense of sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks. “Better not,” Edith had said. “Mrs. Westcot’s little girls are taught at home; why not give these girls home lessons also?”

Accordingly Edith taught them their grammar, their arithmetic and geography. Hilda heard their reading and spelling and superintended their writing. Imelda taught them music and drawing while Cora cultivated their voices.

They were now no longer overburdened with long hours of study, when body and brain were weary. There was now plenty of time for healthy romping games, long strolls in the shady woods where they became interested in the mysteries of botany, and when evening came, though the day had been so pleasant the curly heads scarce touched the pillows ere sleep had closed the tired lids, not to open again until the morning sun peeped in at the eastern windows.