There was only one man in Court who took the slightest notice of Mr. Grey: and he was a tall, florid, bustling, and—as he once had a case of mine, I take the liberty of adding—impudent gentleman, with an impressively loud and boisterous manner. When he saw Grey even in his scarecrow days he would sometimes throw him a hearty “How d’ye do, Grey?”—but sometimes, I imagine, he pretended not to see him. This counsel learned in the law was none other than Mr. Stanley Overton. Grey took a great interest in him, following him from court to court, and listening to him with rapt attention as he bullied his opponents and even the Court; for a more vulgar, bullying, swaggering man than Overton while he was at the Bar I never encountered. He toned down greatly after his elevation.
As Grey grew from month to month more worn and shabby, so did Overton become more sleek and resplendent. When once a man commences in earnest there is no stopping him. The proverb which tells us about the facility of the descent to Avernus is only half a truth. The ascent to the stars is equally easy, and is achieved every day both by the brave man and the bully. It is as easy as the descent, and is a very great deal more comfortable.
Some people were surprised when Overton was made a Vice-Chancellor. In fact, the surprise was very general. But it was not shared by Grey. That devoted man thought it the most natural thing in the world. He would not again have to follow this luminary in its erratic circuit from court to court. His idol was now enthroned. The worship would in future be offered in one temple, and not in two or three.
On the morning when Overton took his seat as Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Grey took his place in the back benches. And when the newly-made judge entered, flushed with victory and imposing in brand-new wig and robes, the whole Bar rose with great rustling of stuff and silk. Grey rose too; and a solicitor’s clerk who sat next him saw his face turn ashen white, while two great tears rolled down his emaciated cheeks; and when he sat down he leaned his head on the ledge in front of him, covered his eyes with his poor thin hand and sighed.
At four o’clock that evening, when the Court rose to go, Grey remained in that position till everyone had left. An usher found him, and touched him on the elbow. He started, looked about him on the emptiness in a dazed sort of way, and, without saying a word, walked quietly off, the usher observing to his plump assistant that Mr. Reginald Grey was “a rum old file.”
Mr. Grey’s chambers were very, very high up in one of the gaunt sets in Gray’s Inn. Indeed, they were at the top of the building—mere garrets. When he arrived at them he found his laundress arranging the tea things—he seldom dined—and there was a decided odour of the savoury kipper about the apartment.
“Ah! Mrs. Tracy,” he said, assuming a thin affectation of gaiety, “this has been a great day for the Inn—a great day.”
“Indeed, sir,” assented that slipshod female.
“Yes, they’ve made a Vice-Chancellor of my old friend, Stanley Overton.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. Which I’m sure, I’m ’appy to ’ear it, an’ ’appy to ’ear as he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Grey.”