“Stop a moment,” he said hoarsely. “There are other considerations.”
“I have them in view,” replied Sylvester, icily. He turned again. Roderick hurriedly interposed himself between him and the door.
“For God's sake, man, think of what you are doing! I don't deny it. There! I can't. It is more than I can bear. I have been in hell for the past week, devoured alive, with the flames licking my soul. I was driven to it, to save myself from disgrace. I was desperate. I would have replaced the money. By Heaven! I would. It was my only chance to avert sudden crash and to marry the woman I love.”
“You love!” sneered Sylvester.
“Yes, the woman I love and crave and worship, for whose sake I'd commit a thousand crimes. I was pushed hard, I tell you, with my back against the wall. I had to. Go back to Ayresford and tell your father I'll repay it,—every penny. I swear to God I will.”
“With Miss Defries's money. Rob Peter to pay Paul. Let me pass.”
“You are going to have me arrested?”
“Certainly.”
“But—Sylvester—good God!” cried Roderick, in incoherent agony. “Think of what it means—our old friendship—we were young together—we have grown old together—years ago, when you too were marrying a sweet woman, I stood by your side—”
“Your damned hand has been in every tragedy of my life,” exclaimed Sylvester, kindled into a sudden flame of anger. “And a damned woman's! If it had not been for a woman, you would not have killed my father.”