“Come in,” he exclaimed, in his short, abrupt, and almost brutal manner, well knowing that the individual about to enter was the poor wretch whom he bullied when in an ill-humour, and whom on all occasions he was wont to make his vile agent and spaniel-like slave.
Creeping up as usual—rather than walking with the natural dignity of a man—towards the table, Mr. Green bowed humbly and waited until his dreaded, but also hated master should deign to give him leave to speak.
“Well, Mr. Green,” said Heathcote, after a pause of a few minutes, during which he waited to see whether his grovelling serf would dare to open his lips until he received permission,—for the lawyer was a man who liked to ascertain the full extent of the power that he wielded over his subordinates, and also to make them feel that he did exercise that power;—“well, Mr. Green, what news this afternoon?”
And, throwing himself back in his arm-chair, he passed his thin, yellow hand through his iron-grey hair.
“If you please, sir, I have several things to report, as you were so much engaged this morning that you could not give the time to hear me,” observed Green, in that subdued and almost affrighted tone of voice which years of servility had rendered habitual to him;—for such is ever the case with those who mistake the most abasing sycophancy for proofs of respect. And here we may observe that it is only in the demoralising and degrading influence of Royal Courts that this disgusting susurration is adopted as a species of homage to the divinity raised up by man’s stupid and most reprehensible idolatry.
“Ah! I recollect—I was busy this morning,” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote. “Well—what have you to report?”
“Please, sir,” resumed the trembling clerk, “Gregson the upholsterer has put his affairs into the hands of Goodman and Meanwell, who have got all his creditors save yourself, sir, to sign a letter of license; and Mr. Goodman has been here this afternoon to say that unless you will give your name also, his client must inevitably go into the Gazette.”
“Then let him go—and to the devil also, if he chooses!” vociferated Mr. Heathcote, flying into a passion—a most unusual thing with one so cool, calculating, and self-possessed as he. “Goodman and Meanwell are what are called honest attorneys—conscientious lawyers—straightforward practitioners;—and they will exert all their energies to carry their client through his difficulties. But I will thwart them, Mr. Green—by God! I will thwart them; Gregson shall go into the Gazette—even if I lose every penny he owes me. I hate your honest attorneys;”—and his lips were curled in bitter irony and demoniac malignity. “Go on, sir!” he exclaimed savagely, as if it were his wretched clerk who had irritated him.
“Thompson, sir—the defendant in Jones’s case, you know,” resumed Mr. Green, “was arrested yesterday—in pursuance of your orders, sir. I took the liberty of mentioning, sir, that his wife had just been confined——”
“Well?” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, impatiently.