by George Moore
Seven years working in Morrison’s Hotel, Page said, and on the second floor? Yes, the second floor is the best in the hotel; the money is better than in the coffee-room, and that is why the Bakers have put me here, Albert replied. I wouldn’t care to leave them; they’ve often said they don’t know what they’d do without me. Seven years, Hubert repeated, the same work up the stairs and down the stairs, banging into the kitchen and out again. There’s more variety in the work than you think for, Hubert, Albert answered. Every family is different, and so you’re always learning. Seven years, Page repeated, neither man nor woman, just a perhapser. He spoke these words more to himself than to Nobbs, but feeling he had expressed himself incautiously he raised his eyes and read on Albert’s face that the words had gone home, and that this outcast from both sexes felt her loneliness perhaps more keenly than before. As Hubert was thinking what words he might use to conciliate Albert with her lot, Albert repeated the words: Neither man nor woman; yet nobody ever suspected, she muttered, and never would have suspected me till the day of my death if it hadn’t been for that flea that you brought in with you. But what harm did the flea do? I’m bitten all over, said Albert, scratching her thighs. Never mind the bites, said Hubert; we wouldn’t have had this talk if it hadn’t been for the flea, and I shouldn’t have heard your story.
Tears trembled on Albert’s eyelids; she tried to keep them back, but they overflowed the lids and were soon running quickly down her cheeks. You’ve heard my story, she said. I thought nobody would ever hear it, and I thought I should never cry again; and Hubert watched the gaunt woman shaking with sobs under a coarse nightshirt. It’s all much sadder than I thought it was, and if I’d known how sad it was I shouldn’t have been able to live through it. But I’ve jostled along somehow, she added, always merry and bright, with never anyone to speak to, not really to speak to, only to ask for plates and dishes, for knives and forks and such like, tablecloths and napkins, cursing betimes the life you’ve been through; for the feeling cannot help coming over us, perhaps over the biggest as over the smallest, that all our trouble is for nothing and can end in nothing. It might have been better if I had taken the plunge. But why am I thinking these things? It’s you that has set me thinking, Hubert. I’m sorry if — Oh, it’s no use being sorry, and I’m a great silly to cry like this. I thought that regrets had passed away with the petticoats. But you’ve awakened the woman in me. You’ve brought it all up again. But I mustn’t let on like this; it’s very foolish of an old perhapser like me, neither man nor woman! But I can’t help it. She began to sob again, and in the midst of her grief the word loneliness was uttered, and when the paroxysm was over, Hubert said: Lonely, yes, I suppose it is lonely; and he put his hand out towards Albert. You’re very good, Mr. Page, and I’m sure you’ll keep my secret, though indeed I don’t care very much whether you do or not. Now, don’t let on like that again, Hubert said. Let us have a little chat and try to under stand each other. I’m sure it’s lonely for you to live without man or without woman, thinking like a man and feeling like a woman. You seem to know all about it, Hubert. I hadn’t thought of it like that before myself, but when you speak the words I feel you have spoken the truth. I suppose I was wrong to put off my petticoats and step into those trousers. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Hubert answered, and the words were so unexpected that Albert forgot her grief for a moment and said: Why do you say that, Hubert? Well, because I was thinking, he replied, that you might marry. But I was never a success as a girl. Men didn’t look at me then, so I’m sure they wouldn’t now I’m a middle-aged woman. Marriage! whom should I marry? No, there’s no marriage for me in the world; I must go on being a man. But you won’t tell on me? You’ve promised, Hubert. Of course I won’t tell, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry. What do you mean, Hubert? You aren’t putting a joke upon me, are you? If you are it’s very unkind. A joke upon you? no, Hubert answered. I didn’t mean that you should marry a man, but you might marry a girl. Marry a girl! Albert repeated, her eyes wide open and staring. A girl? Well, anyway, that’s what I’ve done, Hubert replied. But you’re a young man and a very handsome young man too. Any girl would like to have you, and I dare say they were all after you before you met the right girl. I’m not a young man, I’m a woman, Hubert replied. Now I know for certain, cried Albert, you’re putting a joke upon me. A woman! Yes, a woman; you can feel for yourself if you won’t believe me. Put your hand under my shirt; you’ll find nothing there. Albert moved away instinctively, her modesty having been shocked. You see I offered myself like that feeling you couldn’t take my word for it. It isn’t a thing there can be any doubt about. Oh, I believe you, Albert replied. And now that that matter is settled, Hubert began, perhaps you’d like to hear my story; and without waiting for an answer she related the story of her unhappy marriage: her husband, a house-painter, had changed towards her altogether after the birth of her second child, leaving her without money for food and selling up the home twice. At last I decided to have another cut at it, Hubert went on, and catching sight of my husband’s working clothes one day I said to myself: He’s often made me put these on and go out and help him with his job; why shouldn’t I put them on for myself and go away for good? I didn’t like leaving the children, but I couldn’t remain with him. But the marriage? Albert asked. It was lonely going home to an empty room; I was as lonely as you, and one day, meeting a girl as lonely as myself, I said: Come along, and we arranged to live together, each paying our share. She had her work and I had mine, and between us we made a fair living; and this I can say with truth, that we haven’t known an unhappy hour since we married. People began to talk, so we had to. I’d like you to see our home. I always return to my home after a job is finished with a light heart and leave it with a heavy one. But I don’t understand, Albert said. What don’t you understand? Hubert asked. Whatever Albert’s thoughts were, they faded from her, and her eyelids dropped over her eyes. You’re falling asleep, Hubert said, and I’m doing the same. It must be three o’clock in the morning and I’ve to catch the five o’clock train. I can’t think now of what I was going to ask you, Albert muttered, but you’ll tell me in the morning; and turning over, she made a place for Hubert.
III
What has become of him? Albert said, rousing herself, and then, remembering that Hubert’s intention was to catch the early train, she began to remember. His train, she said, started from Amiens Street at — I must have slept heavily for him — for her not to have awakened me, or she must have stolen away very quietly. But, lord amassy, what time is it? And seeing she had overslept herself a full hour, she began to dress herself, muttering all the while: Such a thing never happened to me before. And the hotel as full as it can hold. Why didn’t they send for me? The missis had a thought of my bed-fellow, mayhap, and let me sleep it out. I told her I shouldn’t close an eye till she left me. But I mustn’t fall into the habit of sheing him. Lord, if the missis knew everything! But I’ve overslept myself a full hour, and if nobody has been up before somebody soon will be. The greater haste the less speed. All the same, despite the difficulty of finding her clothes, Albert was at work on her landing some twenty minutes after, running up and down the stairs, preparing for the different breakfasts in the half-dozen sitting-rooms given to her charge, driving everybody before her, saying: We’re late today, and the house full of visitors. How is it that 54 isn’t turned out? Has 35 rung his bell? Lord, Albert, said a housemaid, I wouldn’t worry my fat because I was down late; once in a way don’t hurt. And sitting up half the night talking to Mr. Page, said another maid, and then rounding on us. Half the night talking, Albert repeated. My bed-fellow! Where is Mr. Page? I didn’t hear him go away; he may have missed his train for aught I know. But do you be getting on with your work, and let me be getting on with mine. You’re very cross this morning, Albert, the maid-servant muttered, and retired to chatter with two other maids who were looking over the banisters at the time.
Well, Mr. Nobbs, the head porter began, when
Albert came running downstairs to see some visitors off, and to receive her tips — well, Mr. Nobbs, how did you find your bed-fellow? Oh, he was all right, but I’m not used to bed-fellows, and he brought a flea with him, and it kept me awake; and when I did fall asleep, I slept so heavily that I was an hour late. I hope he caught his train. But what is all this pother about bed-fellows? Albert asked herself, as she returned to her landing. Page hasn’t said anything, no, she’s said nothing, for we are both in the same boat, and to tell on me would be to tell on herself. I’d never have believed if — Albert’s modesty prevented her from finishing the sentence. She’s a woman right enough. But the cheek of it, to marry an innocent girl! Did she let the girl into the secret, or leave her to find it out when — The girl might have called in the police! This was a question one might ponder on, and by luncheon time Albert was inclined to believe that Hubert told his wife before —— She couldn’t have had the cheek to wed her, Albert said, without warning her that things might not turn out as she fancied. Mayhap, Albert continued, she didn’t tell her before they wedded and mayhap she did, and being one of them like myself that isn’t always hankering after a man she was glad to live with Hubert for companionship. Albert tried to remember the exact words that Hubert had used. It seemed to her that Hubert had said that she lived with a girl first and wedded her to put a stop to people’s scandal. Of course they could hardly live together except as man and wife. She remembered Hubert saying that she always returned home with a light heart and never left it without a heavy one. So it would seem that this marriage was as successful as any and a great deal more than most.
At that moment 35 rang his bell. Albert hurried to answer it, and it was not till late in the evening, between nine and ten o’clock, when the guests were away at the theatres and concerts and nobody was about but two maids, that Albert, with her napkin over her shoulder, dozed and meditated on the advice that Hubert had given her. She should marry, Hubert had said; Hubert had married. Of course it wasn’t a real marriage, it couldn’t be that, but a very happy one it would seem. But the girl must have understood that she was not marrying a man. Did Hubert tell her before wedding her or after, and what were the words? She would have liked to know the words: For after all I’ve worked hard, she said, and her thoughts melted away into meditation of what her life had been for the last five-and-twenty years, a mere drifting, it seemed to her, from one hotel to another, without friends; meeting, it is true, sometimes men and women who seemed willing to be friendly. But her secret forced her to live apart from men as well as women; the clothes she wore smothered the woman in her; she no longer thought and felt as she used to when she wore petticoats, and she didn’t think and feel like a man though she wore trousers. What was she? Nothing, neither man nor woman, so small wonder she was lonely. But Hubert had put off her sex, so she said.... Albert turned over in her mind the possibility that a joke had been put upon her, and fell to thinking what Hubert’s home might be like, and was vexed with herself for not having asked if she had a clock and vases on the chimney-piece. One of the maids called from the end of the passage, and when Albert received 54’s order and executed it, she returned to her seat in the passage, her napkin over her shoulder, and resumed her reverie. It seemed to her that Hubert once said that her wife was a milliner; Hubert may not have spoken the word milliner; but if she hadn’t, it was strange that the word should keep on coming up in her mind. There was no reason why the wife shouldn’t be a milliner, and if that were so it was as likely as not that they owned a house in some quiet, insignificant street, letting the dining-room, back room and kitchen to a widow or to a pair of widows. The drawing-room was the workroom and showroom; Page and his wife slept in the room above. On second thoughts it seemed to Albert that if the business were millinery it might be that Mrs. Page would prefer the ground floor for her showroom. A third and fourth distribution of the “premises” presented itself to Albert’s imagination. On thinking the matter over again it seemed to her that Hubert did not speak of a millinery business but of a seamstress, and if that were so, a small dressmaker’s business in a quiet street would be in keeping with all Hubert had said about the home. Albert was not sure, however, that if she found a girl willing to share her life with her, it would be a seamstress’s business she would be on the look-out for. She thought that a sweet-meat shop, newspapers and tobacco, would be her choice.
Why shouldn’t she make a fresh start? Hubert had no difficulties. She had said — Albert could recall the very words — I didn’t mean you should marry a man, but a girl. Albert had saved, oh! how she had tried to save, for she didn’t wish to end her days in the workhouse. She had saved upwards of five hundred pounds, which was enough to purchase a little business, and her heart dilated as she thought of her two successful investments in house property.
