In spite of his contempt for the old man and his pitilessness towards Roderick, he gazed upon his interlocutor with some wonder. Not a shaft of dismay at the disgrace hanging over his son's head seemed to have penetrated the brass-armoured egotism of this placid, unvenerable man. Sylvester waited contemptuously for him to speak.
“You are preferring the charge against him this morning?” asked Usher.
“I have instructed my solicitor to do so.”
“There is still time to telegraph to your solicitor to withdraw it.”
“I have no such intentions.”
“I cannot let you proceed. I have the feelings of a father.”
Sylvester rose, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stood on the hearth-rug facing Mr. Usher.
“It is no doubt a painful matter to you,” said he, with cold politeness, “but my intentions are unalterable. I will prosecute him right through. Nothing you can possibly say will have the slightest effect on my determination.”
Then the old man seemed to hug his stout body with his arms, and for the first time a gleam came into his pale eyes and he chuckled softly to himself. At the unexpected sound Sylvester started. Such symptoms pointed to senility. But suddenly the old man turned to him with a quick snarl, in startling contrast with his deliberate manner,—
“I suppose you are not aware, you young fool, that you will be sending your own brother to gaol.”