T the top of a dim-windowed house near Gray's Inn Road, in two rooms of his own furnishing, lived a silent, solitary man. He was not old (six-and-thirty at most), and the gentle melancholy of his countenance suggested no quarrel with the world, but rather a placid absorption in congenial studies. His name was Filmer; he had occupied this lodging for seven or eight years; only at long intervals did a letter reach him, and the sole person who visited his retreat was Mrs. Mayhew, the charwoman. Mrs. Mayhew came at ten o'clock in the morning, and busied herself about the rooms for an hour or so. Sometimes the lodger remained at home, sitting at his big table heaped with books, and exchanging a friendly word with his attendant; sometimes he had gone out before her arrival, and in that case he would have been found at the British Museum. Filmer abjured the society of men for that of words; he was a philological explorer, tracking slowly and patiently the capricious river of human speech. He published nothing, but saw the approaching possibility of a great work, which should do honour to his name.
Proud amid poverty, and shrinking with a nervous sensitiveness from the commerce of mankind, he often passed weeks at a time without addressing a familiar word to any mortal save Mrs. Mayhew. He had made friends with his charwoman, though not till the experience of years taught him to regard her with entire confidence and no little respect. To her he even spoke of his studies, half soliloquising indeed, but feeling it not impossible that she might gather some general conception of what he meant. In turn, Mrs. Mayhew confided to him some details of her own history, which threw light upon the fact that she neither looked nor spoke like an ordinary charwoman. She was a meagre but trim-bodied little person of about the same age as her employer; clean, neat, and brisk; her face sharply outlined, with large good-humoured eyes, and a round mouth. A widow, she said, for ten years and more; childless; pretty much alone in the world, though she had relatives not badly off. Shamefaced hints made known to Filmer that she blamed only herself for her poor condition, and one day she confessed to him that her weakness had been drink. When first he engaged her services, she was struggling painfully out of the mire, battling with old temptations, facing toil and hunger. "And now, sir," she said, with her modest, childish laugh, "I feel almost a respectable woman; I do indeed." Whereat Filmer smiled pensively, and nodded.
No life could be less eventful than his. He enjoyed an income of seventy pounds, and looked not for increase. Of his costume he took no thought, his diet was the simplest conceivable. He wanted no holidays. Leisure to work in his own way, blessed independence—this sufficed for him.
On a morning of December (the year was 1869) Mrs. Mayhew came to the house as usual, went upstairs, and tapped at Filmer's door. On entering, she was surprised to see a fireless grate, and on the table no trace of breakfast. Filmer stood by the window; she bade him good-morning, and looked about the room in surprise.
"I'm going out," said the student, in a voice unlike his own. "I didn't trouble to light the fire."
She observed his face.
"But won't you have breakfast, sir? I'll get some in a minute."
"No, thank you. I shall get some—somewhere"
He went into the bedroom, was absent a few minutes, and returned with his overcoat.
"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said Mrs. Mayhew, diffidently. "But if you are in a hurry"
"No, no. Certainly not. I have plenty of time."
"I am very sorry to tell you, sir, that, after next week, I sha'n't be able to come. But," she hastened to add, "I can recommend some one who'll do the work just as well."
Filmer listened without appearance of concern; he seemed to have a difficulty in fixing his thoughts on the matter.
