Heathcote’s fears had all returned by rapid degrees as his head clerk, turning full upon him, levelled at his head the terrible charges summed up in the preceding speech: but when these last words fell upon his ear, he grew ghastly pale, and, staggering back a few paces, sank into his chair,—for he knew how sternly true was the appalling accusation!
“Ah! well may your eyes glare upon me in horror,” resumed Green: “but it is high time that you should hear a few home truths—even though they come from such lips as mine. For you doubtless think that it is all very fine to issue a writ—refuse delay—decline everything in the shape of compromise—and then seize upon the goods of your victim, or clap him into gaol:—but it is we who sit in the outer office—we clerks, who can best penetrate into the effects of such a heartless course. When we see the door open, and the miserable wretch come in with care as legibly written on his countenance as if it were printed in letters on a piece of paper,—and when he comes crawling up to our desk, as if his utter self-abasement would be so pleasing to us clerks as to induce us to say a good word in his behalf to you,—then, when he asks in a tone of anguish which is ready to burst forth into a flood of tears, ‘Do you think it likely that Mr. Heathcote will give me time?’—it is then, I say, that the real feelings of such poor wretches transpire, and the murderous effects of the harsh proceedings adopted by lawyers of your stamp become painfully apparent.”
“To what is all this to lead, Mr. Green?” demanded Heathcote, in a low and subdued tone: for it struck him that such a long address could only be meant to herald some evil tidings, to which his clerk, in the refinement of vindictive cruelty, sought to impart a more vivid poignancy by prefatory delays.
“To what is all this to lead?” repeated Green: “why—to your utter confusion, black-hearted old man that you are! Think of the conversation that took place between us a few days ago: did I not then tell you that there were many deaths to be laid to your door? And I was right! You sent off Thompson to prison—his wife and child perished, and he cut his throat:—you are the murderer of those three human beings! The man Beale, whom you likewise threw into Whitecross Street, died in the infirmary of that gaol—died of a broken heart, sir;—and you were his murderer! Hundreds and hundreds of deaths have you caused in the same way,—hundreds and hundreds of legal murders!”
“Green—Mr. Green!” gasped the lawyer, writhing as if he were a dwarf in the grasp of a giant: then, wondering why he should thus put up with the insolence of his clerk, and falling back upon the belief that the man could not possibly conduct himself in such a way unless he were under the influence of liquor, he suddenly started from his seat, exclaiming, “By heaven! sir, you have gone so far that all hope of forgiveness on my part is impossible.”
“I care nothing for your pardon—and shall not even condescend to solicit it,” replied Mr. Green, in a tone of complete and unmistakeable defiance. “I am going to leave you at once——”
“Leave me!” ejaculated Heathcote, who had hitherto believed it to be impossible that his clerk could throw off the chains of servitude and thraldom which had been so firmly rivetted upon him: “leave me!” he repeated: “yes—oh! yes,” he added, his countenance assuming an expression of the most diabolical sardonism;—“yes—you shall indeed leave me—but it will be to change your quarters for a cell in Newgate!”
“Perhaps you will be the first to repair thither,” said Green, with a chuckle that seemed to grate upon the lawyer’s ears like the sound emitted by the process of sharpening the teeth of a saw.
“In less than two hours, Mr. Green, Clarence Villiers shall be made acquainted with the fact that the thousand pounds have long ceased to be in the Bank of England,” exclaimed Heathcote.
“The thousand pounds are there, sir—yes, there at this very minute,” answered Green, in a tone of assurance which convinced Heathcote that the man was speaking the truth. “And what is more, sir, Mr. Villiers knows all—and has forgiven all! This morning did I replace the money; this afternoon did I repair to Brompton to throw myself at the feet of Mr. Villiers—confess everything—and implore his pardon. Oh! sir, he is a generous man—and he forgave me. ‘You have been guilty of a terrible breach of trust—nay, a heinous crime, Mr. Green,’ he said; ‘but you have atoned for your turpitude. It is our duty in this world to forgive where true contrition is manifested; and I will take care to hold you harmless in this case, should it ever transpire that the money had been sold out.’—I wept while I thanked him; and I said, ‘But I have a bitter enemy who is acquainted with the whole transaction: what can be done to save me from disgrace, should he inform against me?’—‘He cannot prove that you forged my name,’ responded Villiers: ‘I alone can prove that; and under present circumstances, I would not for worlds inflict an injury upon you.’ I again thanked him, and took my leave. You now perceive, Mr. Heathcote, that so far from being in your power, you are entirely in mine. The other day you told me that you would crush me as if I were a worm—that you would send me to Newgate—that you would abandon me to my fate—and that you would even help to have me shipped for eternal exile. I thank you for all your kind intentions, sir,” added Green, in a tone of bitter satire; “and I mean to show my gratitude by exposing you and your villany to the utmost of my ability.”