“Let him walk in,” returned Green, assuming a cold tone: but his heart was palpitating violently with mingled feelings of joy, triumph, and insatiate revenge.
In a few moments James Heathcote entered the room.
But, oh! how changed was that man, not only in countenance but also in deportment! His face was thin—haggard—care-worn: his eyes, sunken in their sockets, were dim and glazed;—his form was bowed;—and in the course of a few months his hair had turned from an iron grey to a stainless white. His aspect was deplorable; and his manner was indicative of deep mental distress—anxiety—suffering—and humiliation.
“Sit down, sir,” said Green, in a patronising tone.
Heathcote placed his hat upon the floor and took a chair: then, fixing his hollow eyes upon his ex-clerk, he was about to open his business—but, unable to bear up against the tide of reminiscences that rushed to his soul, he burst into tears.
Green affected not to notice this ebullition of grief; but deliberately poked the fire.
For a few minutes the old lawyer sate sobbing in the presence of the man whom he had trampled upon during the long period of his vassalage; and at length recovering sufficient composure to enable his tongue to give utterance to the ideas that were uppermost, he said, “Mr. Green, you are doubtless astonished to receive a visit from me!”
“Not at all, sir: I expected it,” was the laconic reply.
“And wherefore should you have expected it?” asked Heathcote, anxiously.
“Because the result of yesterday’s trial in the Court of Queen’s Bench places you completely in the power of my victorious client,” responded Green; “and you are likewise well aware that every other action pending against you must he decided in the same manner.”