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Page 15
"SHEILA."
_Mark Holdsworth_, a bachelor of middle age, is bored with commercial
success and seeks a diversion. He would like to have a son. And his
attractive typist, _Sheila_, strikes his fancy as a suitable medium.
On her side the girl (obviously recognisable by her innocence as a
pre-war flapper) is sick of drudgery, longs very simply for the joys
of life, as she imagines them, meaning freedom and pretty dresses
and money to spend and piles of invitation cards, and so forth. His
proposal of marriage, practically the first word he has ever said
to her outside their business relations, seems to her too good to be
true. There is no question of a grand passion, not even a question of
every-day romance. It is just a fair exchange, though she is too young
to appreciate the man's motives and is content with the pride of being
his choice and the prospects of the wonderful life that opens before
her.
Three months later (they are married and in their different ways have
grown to care for one another) we find her discontented. Her social
blunders and the attitude of his people have set her on edge, and
we are further to understand that she is not very responsive to the
strength of his feelings for her. A bad shock comes when she hears,
through a jealous woman-friend of his bachelor days, that he has
married her for the sake of a son. This poisons for her the memory of
their first union and she refuses to be his wife again.
An old obligation, entered into before his marriage, compels him to
go abroad on business where she cannot accompany him. He does not
know that she is to have a child, and in his absence she keeps the
knowledge from him. Her boy is born and dies. The news, reaching
_Holdsworth_ through a brother, brings him home, and husband and wife
are reconciled. Such is the plot, told crudely enough.
Now, if Miss SOWERBY meant deliberately to create a woman who does
not really know what she wants--a creature of moods without assignable
motives--then I am not ashamed of failing to understand her _Sheila_,
since her _Sheila_ did not understand herself. But if she is designed
to illustrate the eternal feminine (always supposing that there is
such a thing) then I protest that her chief claim to be representative
of her sex is her unreasonableness. Of course I should never pretend
to say of a woman in drama or fiction that she has not been drawn true
to nature. To know one man is, in most essentials, to know all men;
to know fifty women (though this may be a liberal education) does
not advance you very far in knowledge of a sex that has never been
standardized.
When we first meet _Sheila_ her idea of happiness is to spend an
evening (innocent of escort) at the picture-palace; take this from
her and her heart threatens to break. Three short months and she has
developed to the point of breaking off relations with a husband
who has given her all the picture-palaces she wanted, but has also
committed the unpardonable indecency of marrying her with the object
of getting a son!
[Illustration: THE VICE OF INCONSTANCY.
_Sheila_. "BEFORE YOU MARRIED ME YOU WEREN'T NEARLY SO NICE TO ME.
IT'S HORRID OF YOU TO CHANGE."
_Mark Holdsworth_.. MR. C. AUBREY SMITH.
_Sheila_........... MISS FAY COMPTON.]
Here, if she approves the attitude of her heroine, I am tempted to
argue, in my dull way, with the charming author of _Sheila_. You must
always remember that there was no love--not even courtship--before
this betrothal. The girl was swept off her feet by the honour done to
her and by the chance of seeing "life" as she had never hoped to
see it. The man, on his side, wanted a son. Was his object so very
contemptible in comparison with hers? Women marry by the myriad for
the mere sake of having children, and nobody blames them. Indeed, we
call it, very reverentially, the maternal instinct. Well, what is the
matter with the paternal instinct?
However, I am not going to set my opinion up against Miss SOWERBY'S.
Where I can follow her I find so much clear insight and observation
that I must needs have faith in her good judgment where I cannot
understand. This arrangement still leaves me free to prefer her in
her less serious moments. Here she is irresistible with that delicate
humour of hers that is always in the picture and never has to resort
to the device of manufactured epigram. There is true artistry in her
lightest touch. Her people are not galvanised puppets; they simply
draw their breath and there they are. And she has the particular
quality of charm that makes you yield your heart to her, even when
your head remains your own.
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