Mr. Roundjacket tapped at the door of Mr. Rushton's sanctum, but received no answer. He tapped louder—no reply. Somewhat irate at this, he kicked the door, and at the same moment opened it, preparing himself for the encounter.
An unusual sight awaited him.
Seated at his old circular table, covered with papers and books, Mr. Rushton seemed perfectly ignorant of his presence, as he had not heard the noise of the kick. His head resting upon his hand, the forehead drooping, the eyes half closed, the bosom shaken by piteous sighs, and the whole person full of languor and grief, no one would have recognized the rough, bearish Lawyer Rushton, or believed that there could be anything in common between him and the individual sitting at the table, so bowed down with sorrow.
Before him lay a little book, which he looked at through a mist of tears.
Roundjacket touched him on the shoulder, with a glance of wonder, and said:—
"You are sick, sir!—Mr. Rushton, sir!—there is somebody to see you."
In truth, the honest fellow could scarcely stammer out these broken words; and when Mr. Rushton, slowly returning to a consciousness of his whereabouts, raised his sorrowful eyes, Roundjacket looked at him with profound commiseration and sympathy.
"You have forgotten," said Mr. Rushton, in a low, broken voice, his pale lips trembling as he spoke,—"you don't keep account of the days as I do, Roundjacket."
"The days—I—"
"Yes, yes; it is natural for you to wonder at all this," said the weary looking man, closing the book, and locking it up in a secret drawer of the table; "let us dismiss the matter. Did you say any one wanted me? Yes, I can attend to business—my mind is quite clear—I am ready—I will see them now, Roundjacket."