For five and twenty years, and on every day during term time, Reginald Grey took his place on the seats devoted to the Junior Bar in one of the Courts allotted to Vice-Chancellors. He did not live to attend before Vice-Chancellors in the spick-and-span mausoleum, that goes by the name of the Royal Courts of Justice. When he was at the Bar, the Vice-Chancellors sat in dingy buildings in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—the same, indeed, which have been so fully described in Bleak House.

To the reporters, barristers, general public, and to successive Vice-Chancellors, Reginald was as well known as “the Fields” themselves. He was a modest, self-contained man, and he never held a brief. But he must have known a wonderful deal of law, for he never missed a case, and he listened to every argument and suggestion as though Coke in propri person were lecturing him upon Littleton. Even when lunch time came Reginald did not hurry out of Court with the chattering, surging crowd of litigants and lawyers’ clerks. He sat quietly in the position which he had taken up, and when the Court was quite empty, drew a penny bun from his pocket, which he devoured, gazing absently up at the roof of the Court. When the Court resumed its duties, he brushed the crumbs from his trousers, and when the Vice-Chancellor entered, he rose with the rest of the Bar and bowed to his lordship with every dignity.

Wigs, gowns, and bands are, as articles of attire, subject to the very same law of decay which affects a great-coat or a suit of sables, and the years had not spared the robes which denoted Mr. Grey’s professional status. His wig was discoloured by dust, smoke, and other accidents. Whole wisps of horsehair stuck out here and there, and one of the little tails which depend behind had fallen bodily away—had perhaps been eaten away by rats. His bands were most disreputable specimens of man-millinery; for indeed he was his own laundress, and washed those symbolic rags in his own basin, drying them before his fire in his chambers in Gray’s Inn. His stuff gown was a frayed and ragged garment; no ragman would have advanced sixpence on it. For five and twenty years had it—but there! it is about the man himself I would speak. There is something to my mind so pathetic in the sight of these forensic shreds and patches, that I cannot bear to dwell on their dilapidation.

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.”

“A very old friend indeed, Mrs. Tracy. Why, we were boys together. We were at school together. We were at college together. And we were both called to the Bar the same day.”

“Law!” exclaimed Mrs. Tracy.

Indeed, what could she say? Mr. Grey had always been a remarkably reserved, reticent man—a “little queer,” the good lady thought—and, beyond what was necessary in the way of speech, quite silent and inscrutable.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” went on the poor barrister, “and I’ll tell you something that will surprise you even more. We were both in love with the same lady.”

This indeed did surprise the draggle-tailed bed-maker, and she looked her astonishment.

“It’s quite true; and the strange thing is that she preferred me, or at least she told me so. And when I left my home in Devonshire I was engaged to her.”

Mrs. Tracy did not now think that the gentleman was a “little queer”—she was convinced that he was stark staring mad. She looked apprehensively at the poor thin knife that lay on the table. Reticent! Why, the man was as garrulous and confidential as a village gossip.

He continued:

“You see, Overton was always a more pushing man, and a cleverer man too; and after we were called he borrowed a hundred pounds from me and went down to Devonshire. Some wicked stories got circulated about my doings in London, in consequence of which my sweetheart ceased to care for me, and Overton, who was always a plucky fellow, ran away with her and married her.”His voice trembled as he narrated that episode; but he returned to the affectation of gaiety, and said,—

“Yes, Mrs. Tracy, and she’s now Lady Overton; and of course I’m very glad of it, for her sake.”

“Of course, sir,” acquiesces Mrs. Tracy.

“And the funny thing is,” he added, with the most pitiable attempt at hilarity, “he never paid me back that hundred pounds—ha, ha, ha!”

It was a mockery of laughter, the cachinnation of a ghost.

“And to-night, Mrs. Tracy,” he said, “I am going home.”

“To Devonshire, sir?”

“I said home,” he answered; “but you will come as usual in the morning, and see that all is right. You can go, Mrs. Tracy. Good-bye.”

And to the utter astonishment of the poor woman, he shook hands with her, and, I fear, retained her hand for a moment, and there was the suspicion of moisture in his eyes.

The next morning, when Mrs. Tracy came to see that all was right, she found Mr. Reginald Grey stretched lifeless on the hearthrug. A revolver lay beside him, and there was a bullet through his forehead. In his left hand was an open locket, containing a little wisp of straw-coloured hair.