Hilda’s Home: A Story of Woman’s Emancipation by Rosa Graul - HTML preview

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CHAPTER XXXXIV.

Another winter came and still the home was not finished, but now the work on the buildings could still go on, as it was mainly within doors and under shelter. In the heated rooms the skilled workmen found their tasks easy, and under their hands the rooms were rapidly turned into bowers of beauty and use. The gardeners were kept busy during all the winter months and in the early springtime commenced their outdoor work of beautifying the place. Fountains, statues and other objects of beauty and use grew as if by magic. The hot-houses and conservatories were wonders of beauty and elegance. Then came the work of furnishing the building. Again money was not spared to make everything perfect. Every nook and arch contained some rare piece of art—of sculptured work. Exquisite paintings graced the walls. Breakfast and noonday meals were to be taken in what was called the breakfast room. This room was arranged simply for comfort—warm and cozy for the winter, cool and shaded for the summer. The furniture was covered with leather. The breakfast was to be simple, consisting principally of milk, grain foods and fruits. The mid-day meal to which it was expected few would gather was again simple—fruits and nuts playing a leading part.

But in the evening when all should be gathered together to enjoy as well as eat—but we are anticipating—too eager to lift the veil from the future. Let us wait, rather, until all our dear friends shall be gathered, to partake of their first evening meal here in the new home; for the present let us go on with our description of this glorious structure.

And yet, how shall we describe it? The most vivid fancy fails to do it justice. The corridors, whose floors are inlaid with tile; the marble staircases; the painted walls; the carved ceilings; the cozy private rooms—each in itself a gem; books and music to be found in them all; each a sanctum for the owner thereof. The library, the music room and the drawing room, each perfect as to form and dimensions; each flooded with brilliant light, or softly toned down as the fancy would demand or occasion call for, yet all arranged so as not to cause needless work.

It was the desire and expectation of this happy household to have such only move about the rooms as were fairly intelligent and cultured. “We don’t want them to be servants, who do the work in this home.” Owen had remarked, “but comrades and mates, each doing a share. No drones. Drones and idlers do not deserve to enjoy.”

Among the details worthy of particular mention were the bath rooms. Not little tubs wherein one person could scarce recline, but a bath in which the bather could splash and swim and romp, not a bath in which false modesty would allow a single occupant only, but one in which a bevy of bathers could enjoy the luxury at the same time. Hot and cold water; steam baths and shower baths—O what a blessing in the cleansing, purifying element! bringing health and strength to all who are wise enough to rightly use it. Just watch the healthy babe in the bath, as it kicks and splashes and screams with delight. Was there ever a more beautiful sight?

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.

The boys received similar treatment. As Paul’s clear and experienced eye almost instantly detected the cause of the evil that was threatening to make a wreck of their young lives, the same methods had from the first been made use of to fill their unemployed hours.

Such had been the lives of our friends, and now came the task of moving, or of emigration. The old familiar scenes, the walks and drives, the groves and the cooling fountains, would know them no more. Mr. and Mrs. Wallace had long since known of this project and it was with sincere regret they saw the day approach when they should say good bye to these elder, and at one time considered burdensome children. But far worse than they had expected—their younger children refused to remain behind, but insisted on going along to the new home.

At first Mrs. Wallace would hear none of it, but as they begged so hard, and were seconded by all the members of the “colony,” she finally gave her consent.

Of course it is not to be supposed that Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, especially the latter, fully understood the nature of the home to which her children were to be taken. She was too thorough a woman of the world to countenance a scheme so unconventional, so outlandish. She only knew that it was a co-operative home her children were going to; that they had become bright, healthy and strong since she had given them into the care of her stepdaughters, and as she knew she would now have to send them away again to complete their education she wisely concluded it was better to send them where she felt assured they would be properly cared for, and more so as it was just as easy for them to come home on a vacation from the co-operative home as from any other school. And—yes, she could go to see them. The invitation had been tendered her, so that matter was satisfactorily settled.

Osmond, too, had a severe battle to fight. His life for the past two years had been a series of battles. His father had soon discovered the presence of Osmond’s mother, and knew of his visits to her. With a volley of oaths he had issued the command that Osmond should never go near her again. To his surprise the boy not only demurred to this but firmly declared that he would go to see his mother as often as he desired. Almost dumb-founded the father shouted:

“What! Court the society of that outcast! that shameless creature who knows not the meaning of the word decency? the woman who——”

“No more of that!”—came in firm, almost defiant tones from the lips of the boy. “You have slandered the best and purest of women long enough—the woman I am proud to own as my mother! An accident made me acquainted with her and with her friends, and never until then did I know what purity meant, what true manhood and womanhood meant. My mother and my sister are women with whom any man might well be proud to claim kinship. I will not give up their companionship. I would rather cut loose from you!”

Mr. Leland stormed, fumed and cursed, but to no avail. The boy was firm.

“I will disinherit you!” he exclaimed. “I will cut you off without a cent!”

“Do so!” was the calmly uttered reply. “Then I will find some work to do and will transfer my life altogether to the side of my mother.”

At this point Mr. Leland wisely desisted. Somehow he hoped to circumvent the boy; hoped to regain full control, forgetting that Osmond’s mind was daily developing, and that he was now able to think for himself. So when the son’s intention of going away with his mother and sister became known another storm broke loose. But Osmond was firm, and on the morning that witnessed the departure of the colonists he appeared with the rest, equipped and ready for the journey. Meta’s dark head appeared beside him. She was growing to be quite a big girl and all along the journey she was his especial care. His “little sweetheart”—she had been termed long since, and the grave-faced child was proud of the title.