Sheila and Others/Sheila
SHEILA
A TOUCH of wistful warmth comes to my heart when I think of Sheila, blue-eyed, bright-haired, Irish Sheila, flushed with the adventure of foreign travel, and all unapprised of the toils that wait in Canadian kitchens to take the feet of the unwary immigrant.
At first she was but a name on a list, one of ten the W. H. H. S. experimented with, advancing the passage money, and "placing" in carefully chosen homes. At least that was how the enthusiastic President of the W. H. H. S. expressed it, and naturally I was flattered to be among the chosen. The name looked promising to me. I built fresh hopes upon it. I pictured a bright young face and an ardent, responsive spirit, with marginal decorations of toast for breakfast of a golden brown hue instead of murky black. And I wasn't far wrong—at least in regard to the first two points. My heart warmed to the twinkly-eyed, frank young girl who presented herself at our door one fine morning with her hat askew and an over-worked "grip" in her hand.
She smiled confidingly, and explained that she'd got on the wrong tram, but the man had been that friendly, Mem. She called me "Mem" from the first, and the Irish brogue of her was music to the ear. She was but eighteen, eager and ready for new worlds to conquer, but had never been in a real kitchen before. I must say my own ardor was damped by this admission, but not hers.
"I'll soon be larnin' how youse like it done, Mem," she would say with cheerful nonchalance.
We were in charge (I almost wrote "grip") at the moment, of a highly accomplished, serious-minded Lady-help of English extraction and lofty connection, who had studied French in Paris and Household Science in New York. She was now getting her "practical" experience in before going on West to let her light shine before a more appreciative and larger-pursed circle of admirers. She was fearfully competent. Our domicile had undergone a unique transformation. The corners in the dim twilight of the attic-stairs had been penetrated with a meat-skewer, the grooves in the hardwood paneling of the bathroom, ditto, and even the superannuated jelly glasses in the cellar's remotest depths had been investigated and "wiped down."
Relays of charwomen had been at work upon us for some time under the manipulation of this energetic lady and we were all worn out, particularly the instigator of these reforms herself, who was of the angular, nervous type, and in whose presence I experienced a sense of guilt, whether because of her pale cheek or the product of the skewer on the back stairs, I cannot say. I suffered from an uneasy sense that things weren't as they should be in Canada, and that I was implicated. Of course I was contrite, but I don't think it helped any
I had long entertained views, previous to this, on the subject of the dignity of domestic labor and had publicly expressed the conviction that ladies engaged in such work should not be debarred the privileges of ladies. Feeling obliged to live up to these principles, in the present experiment, I had a place set at the family board for the experimentee, who neither demanded nor declined the concession, but who rarely achieved the doubtful pleasure of dining with us by reason of the exigencies of serving. This maladjustment was, of course, remedied with Sheila's advent, and the accomplished lady sat with us at meals producing an inhibitory effect upon the flow of conversation, and keeping an ever watchful eye upon Sheila. I could see the firm line of her decisive mouth becoming firmer when the bacon (it was in pre-war days) came in slightly congealed, or the pudding overdone. And I could see too, a cloud beginning to settle on Sheila's confident youth, tinging its brightness.
I became uneasy. The arrangement was merely transient. It was intended to serve two ends; Sheila's induction into Canadian ways, and to provide the Domestic Science lady with harborage until the appointed time when she would spread wing for wider flight, "These old country servants need to be made to understand who is mistress," she remarked to me shortly after Sheila's arrival. "It all depends upon the start they get. I know their ways—if you will permit me—better than you possibly can."
I permitted her. I acquiesced in everything she said and did. I was bound to, partly out of gratitude for her distinguished services at a time of domestic stress, and partly for the sake of peace. But I had my mental reservations, and inwardly prayed that the time might be shortened to us.
Then one day, going into the kitchen, I became aware of an unwonted and self-conscious silence there. Sheila looked like a drooping flower. Her face was kept studiously away from me. I knew the hour had come and I quailed before it. I wonder if other women are such cowards in their kitchens as I am in mine; if they feel, as I do, the delicacies of the situation, the injustices it engenders, the necessary reserves? Personal service involves personal relations between strangers. No wonder such relations become strained, particularly when one remembers the youth, the inexperience and too often the lack of guidance of at least one of the participants. Tact and patience and discerning sympathy are all in requisition when skating over such thin ice as kitchen nerves cover, and too few of us keep these elemental virtues on top.
"Sheila, my girl, what is it?" I said finally.
Thereat my fears were confirmed. Sheila banged the range till the flat-bottomed kettle slithered across it, upset the dipper, and showed other outward signs of inward emotion.
"Come, tell me about it, Sheila. I want to know. Are you not happy with us here?"
Sheila held herself rigid a moment then flung into a chair; the bright head went down on one round young arm, and a sob became audible.
I put my hand on the tangle of coppery hair that ran riot under the wisp of a cap she wore and begged her to tell me what the trouble was. She struggled valiantly with herself, finally getting the upperhand.
"I doesn't be plazin' ye, Mem, an' I'll be afther lookin' for anither place," finally emerged in smothered accents from the bent head.
"O no, surely you won't be doing that Sheila, you are really getting on very nicely. You did the dining-room beautifully this morning."
"Her do'ent say that! She's afther sayin' as how I do'ent be plazin' ye, an' O'im thinkin' mesilf as how the house work ain't suited to me, an' O'ill be doin' betther at some ither thrade."
She was a motherless bairn who had run wild on her native heath. She had never even been in a city before setting sail for the new land where all was "sthrange" to her.
"Sheila," I found myself saying unpremeditatedly, "does it seem very far away to you here, and do we talk queer?"
"Youse do that," responded Sheila with unmistakable fervor.
"And we seem to have a great many different things to eat, don't we," I went on, following up my inspiration.
"Youse do," sobbed Sheila again with prompt and emphatic concurrence.
"And—and anything else, Sheila?"
"'Cept jest that she do be makin' me feel O'im the dthirt undther her feet."
"Well, but Sheila, my dear (yes, I said 'my dear') you're not to let yourself be feeling that way any more. It isn't true. She hasn't meant it that way. It's just her manner. And she's leaving us in a day or two anyway. And you know I couldn't get on by myself the way things are, now could I? No; and you'll stay and help me out a while longer, won't you, Sheila, till we see how we get on by ourselves?"
"I will that, Mem," responded Sheila with unexpected and reassuring heartiness.
After the lady of domestic experience and convictions left us to our own inferior ways, we settled down into a comfortable routine, while the dust (I suppose) settled down again also into the grooves of the bathroom panels, and not many days after the departure I heard that most cheering of all sounds to a housekeeper's ear, a snatch of song from the kitchen.
The exigencies of said kitchen had been presided over so long by maidens of uncertain age and temper that it was a welcome change to have there a brisk young person radiating energy, who didn't resent one's appearance as an intrusion, or one's interest in the state of the bread-box as an unwarrantable liberty. On the contrary, Sheila invited inspection with every appearance of having nothing to conceal. Everyone took to her. The cheeriness of her smile and coaxing manner warmed the heart of the callers at the door (where also the effulgence of the brass testified to her thoroughness) and inspired hope in the needlebook men and vendors of crocheted-lace horrors of whom our street seems to have more than its rightful share. One friend said to me, "I thought at first I had come to the wrong house, I had got so used to old Hannah's massive immobility, covering latent suspicion, that I was for backing off when I beheld this radiant piece of Ould Ireland."
But not all the visitors were for the front door by any means. Youth and sweetness draw homage in the kitchen no less than in the parlor—very much more so, in fact, being less barricaded by convention there.
First came Maggie O'Rourke, Sheila's cabin mate on the passage out, a strapping, outspoken damsel whose brogue, rich in quality, demanded concentrated attention. She had fallen in the allocation, to the home of Toronto magnate manned (and womaned) by a staff of twelve who evidently rendered the life of the supervising housekeeper a daily misery. At least, mine would have been so under the conditions pictured by Maggie, who drew some very realistic vignettes of high life in Toronto's select circles. The raciest of these were no doubt reserved for Sheila's ear alone, but the combination of youthful spirits and a half-day off often proved irresistible to Maggie's ready tongue.
"So you are liking your new place," I said to her one day, "that's good."
"Yes'm, though it do be a bit out o' the way o' the cyars; we do be havin' a noo butler the week, Thomas be name. The Misthress be's away an' the masther is that partic'lar. Cook, she up an' made a noo kind o' scone fer breakfas' the morn, an' w'en Thomas took them in, says the masther, 'W'at be this, Thomas?' says he, an' says Thomas solemn like, 'Scones, Sir!' an' the masther he up an' throwed them at 'im. An' w'en Thomas telled us about it, 'My goodness,' says I, 'an' w'at d'ye do then?' An' Thomas, 'e says, cool-like, 'I let 'em lay.'"
But it was not through Maggie alone that social life solicited Sheila. "Gentlemen friends" began to present themselves, red-faced, blocky individuals, redolent of scented soap and encased in obviously new and uncomfortable-looking suits.
I found myself in the course of time becoming familiarized with the physiognomy of one in particular, a raw-looking youth whom one might suspect of coming under R. L. S.'s category of "good but incompetent." But whatever he lacked in brilliancy, he endeavored to atone for in frequency and duration. His visits were interminable, and presently I found that he had settled into the position of "me friend" which seemed to entail at least a fair prospect of permanency—a prospect further confirmed at Christmas by the appearance on Sheila's round arm of a new shiny gold (rolled?) watch.
I tried to conceal my surprise over this and other costly tokens that the season brought Sheila. She herself took them in a matter-of-fact way that betokened an astonishing ability to assimilate the new world and all its doings. But their appearance confirmed my conviction that not only is money more easily earned and spent than formerly, but that boys and girls of Sheila's class are much less prone to the habit of saving than were their forbears.
Of course I duly admired the watch, thinking thus to add to Sheila's own pleasure in it, but was rather baffled by an ostentatious show of indifference on her part.
In the course of a very few months, Sheila had become a well-poised, self-assured young person. Life in Canada had wrought a marked transformation. She had risen to her opportunities and adapted herself with surprising flexibility to such resources as her position and attractions commanded. It was plain that she was wrought of "good stuff." I liked her none the less for a certain reserve she showed along with her open-hearted warmth of disposition. I recognized it as an essential quality of substance and of capacity for growth. She was never afraid to acknowledge any little kindness shown her, as smaller natures are (as though gratitude might frighten it away), and she had the really priceless quality of identifying herself with the interests of the household, sharing its pleasures and taking for granted a corresponding interest in her own.
But there was not wanting evidence that Sheila was ripening for another and larger sphere than our small circle afforded. I realized it long before she did. So that when she told me one day that her sister who had preceded her to America and was now in Cleveland doin' fine, and suggesting that Sheila join her (adding with cheerful confidence "When you are suited, Mem"), I was more concerned for her welfare than I was surprised.
"Cleveland!" I exclaimed. "But I don't like to see you go so far away."
"Shure, an' I'll be all right, Mem, wi' me sisther an' me brither. He's talkin' of comin' over too, the little wan, the plumber by thrade. Me and the sisther'll be buyin' his passage belike. Me sisther says there do be a fine situation waitin' on me."
The invincible confidence of youth was dancing in her eye. Adventure lay before her and she held out both arms to it. "It is but natural," I said to myself, and yet I could not help feeling solicitude on her behalf. It wasn't a city I had been picturing as Sheila's manifest destiny, but one of those little, comfortable-looking houses that grow in such abundance on the outskirts of Toronto, where the storks call often, and where thrifty young couples growing in wisdom and worldly possession add substantial increase to the general sum of happiness.
If as a marginal decoration to this picture I had added some inheritance on my own part, of Sheila's future, an extra hand at dinner parties, or during the orgy of spring cleaning, it was merely, I hope, by way of filling out the color scheme. Such vicarious under-studies, permanently located within reach, are as a rock of refuge to the weary housekeeper, battered amid the tides of successive domestic upheavals and infelicities.
I did not at the time altogether abandon hope that it might yet be so for Sheila and me. I thought "me friend" was a permanency, and would ultimately bring her back. But it appears that even a gold-filled watch is not to be taken as a sign of indissoluble affection, for when I made some discreetly distant reference to the young man left behind, the dimple in Sheila's cheek became a line and she said in a laconic tone "Oh, him!"
So when I was "suited," Sheila bought her an expensive, braided blue serge suit in the latest mode, and a hat with a curly cock's feather that nodded aggressive defiance to all the world, happily belying the smiling face beneath, and set forth for new and greener pastures.
It was not without foreboding I saw her go. She seemed to me so young to face the great world alone, the Juggernaut world of allurement and shallow estimate, and self-seeking and easy indifference.
True to her promise to let us know how she got on, came presently a letter—"I now take my pen in hand hoping it finds youse all as it leaves me at present"—and saying little about herself save the bald fact that she was working in a "refined hotel," and getting good pay. At its close she thanked me for past kindness adding with characteristic heartiness, "Youse was awful good to me."
On Christmas morning that year, along with the mountain of highly-embossed declarations of devotion from all and sundry, came one of those irritating customs cards that unfeelingly announce, "1 package from United States," without even the meagerest specifications on which the expanding imagination can feed. Of course, it was days before we got it, for nobody goes downtown after Christmas, and I had time to body forth all sorts of possibilities, pleasing and otherwise. Sheila was the last contingency that would have entered my mind, yet from Sheila it proved to be. And what do you think! it was an elegant fantasia in gold braid and bead embroidery, designed for the embellishment of one's bodice, to be applied or removed at will. It was an expansive glorification of "quite the newest thing," a really handsome and modish accessory, and must have cost a pretty penny. The touch of barbaric splendor with which it was glitteringly wrought, found response in the rudimentary savage within me, and I knew how it must have appealed to Sheila's unpurged soul. I was glad it was beyond her range to so much as suspect the unsuitability of such a gift, far handsomer and more valuable than the tiny remembrance I had sent to her. There was nothing to be done now of course, but to accept gracefully, and this I proceeded to do.
After many days came this reply, innocent of punctuation, the last word ever received from or of our little bright-haired Sheila.
"I have great pleasure in answering your ever welcome letters and cards and the picture of your flowers is just beautiful. I am very pleased to have it and to know youse is all well as this leaves me at present. Mrs. C., I am very glad to know that you like your little Xmas present. It is only an appreciation of your kindness to me when I was living with you and I thank you very much for all you done for me. Mrs. C., we may all have lots of friends but it is very hard to find a true friend. And when we find a true friend I think it is our duty to try to keep them and to appreciate them. As I am going around now Mrs. C., I have got a chance to see and understand what this world is like and what it is made up of. It certainly is a very wonderful world, and I am very glad to know that Janet is with you still and keeping well. It takes a lot off you to know that some one just understands your customs and everything else. Well now, Mrs. C., I hope I am not taking up too much of your time in writing as I know you have a lot to contend with now. I will draw to a close as this leaves me well, hoping to find youse all the same. I am yours most respectfully,
Sheila."
That letter remains my best credential as a mistress and I prize it accordingly. I am more grateful for it even, than the bead "Plastron" which is perennially admired by my artistic friends, one of whom observing it not long ago, charged me with flagrant extravagance. I use it to brighten up my pre-war gowns, but I never put it on without a thought of Sheila and a drag at the heart. What lay behind that allusion to "a true friend"? I doubt if her term at the refined hotel was a long one. It hurt my sense of fitness to think of her there. Her innate quality was far above the rank blind fortune placed her in, and when I recall her it is less as a maid of all work than as a spirit superior to circumstances, transcending them by sheer buoyancy born of faith and good cheer and fine quality.