The White Dove

by William John Locke

It was not until the evening that Sylvester entered the library again. His father was still unconscious, likely to remain so for many hours. Matthew's ordinary medical adviser had consulted with Sylvester. A trained nurse telegraphed for from London had just arrived. At present nothing more could be done. Possibly the stricken man might recover. But the case was grave.

Sylvester had been puzzled all day. What could have induced the stroke? A moment or two before, his father had been in the best of spirits, talking with an enjoyment that had been very rare of late. Generally, when the heart is weak, it is some sudden shock that paralyses. But here the theory of sudden shock was untenable. Perhaps it was simply the reaction of the high spirits following depression.

Miss Lanyon and himself had dined together,—a cheerless meal. The gentle lady wept and conjectured feebly as to causation, implored Sylvester, as indeed she had done all day, to pronounce favourably on the patient's condition. They did not eat much. The cook had sent up tearful apologies for the spoiling of a dish, on the ground that she was too upset. But they would not have noticed. The parlour maid's eyes were red. She had been some years in the house, and the personal charm that endeared Matthew to all who came in contact with him had gained the girl's affection. Miss Lanyon used to say that Matthew spoiled the servants. Matthew replied that he hated perfection, and liked them spoiled; they were more human. At any rate, his sudden illness spread consternation and dismay through the household. The news had gone abroad, and anxious inquiries had been made at the door by all kinds and conditions of folk. Amongst them was Mr. Usher, who had shuffled up to hear news of his dear friend in affliction. Sylvester had sent him a curt reply by the servant. He disliked Mr. Usher cordially, and had rejoiced over the strained relations that had kept him away from the house. Dinner was over, and Sylvester went into the library to smoke. The room was more or less as he had left it that morning. Matthew's pass-book lay on the table, and three or four passed cheques lay upon the book. He filled and lit his pipe, and sat down in the writing-chair to think over the case. Suddenly, the room recalling associations, he remembered the cheque he had seen flutter from his father's fingers. Almost idly he looked down to see if it was still on the floor. His eye fell upon it underneath the armchair, whither it had probably been kicked during the bodily removal of his father from the room. He picked it up. But a glance was enough to make him start back with an oath. It was a passed cheque for £3,000 made payable to and indorsed by Roderick Usher, and signed “Matthew Lanyon.” At first he could not comprehend it. Why should his father have paid to Roderick so amazing a sum? And having paid it, why should he have received such a shock on seeing the cheque? He brought it nearer the lamp that stood on the table; and then, suddenly, a suspicion smote him, like a great blow. There were variations from his father's writing. His signature, so simple as to be roughly imitated with the greatest facility, had yet certain strong characteristics which were missing here. Sylvester looked at the numbers of the cheques on the table; they were consecutive. The three thousand pound cheque bore a number from a totally different series. The pink colour, too, was slightly faded. Where was the book from which the cheque had been torn? His glance fell upon his father's bunch of keys, depending from one in the lock of the writing-table drawer. An idea struck him. He remembered that his father, most methodical of men, kept the stubs of his cheque-books ranged along a shelf of an old press between the fireplace and the window. For a moment he hesitated. He had never looked at one of his father's papers in his life. His intention seemed almost criminal.

“I beg your pardon, my dear, but I must,” he said, half aloud, and then finding the key he opened the cupboard. A rapid examination showed him the stub he wanted. The dates on the counterfoils were of three years back. With trembling fingers he ran through the numbers. The counterfoil of Roderick's cheque was missing.

Mechanically he replaced the stub and locked the cupboard. And then he stood for a while, fierce-eyed, shivering with a horrible certainty. Roderick had forged the cheque, and the shock of discovery had nearly killed his father.

The whole man was white-hot with fury. In such accesses of anger, stern, reserved men have killed their enemies mercilessly. Instead of confusing their judgment, their anger burns it to crystal clearness. Every action is that of sublimated reason. Sylvester remained for a few moments motionless; then he picked up a railway time-card from the table, glanced at it, and consulted his watch. He turned down the lamp and left the room. In the hall he was met by Simmons, the doctor. The latter was by far the more outwardly perturbed of the two.

“Well, how are things?”

“As satisfactory as can be expected,” replied Sylvester. “Come and see.” They went together slowly up the stairs, discussing the symptoms, and entered the sick chamber. There was very little change. Unconsciousness would still last for many hours. That at least was certain. Meanwhile they could do nothing but await events. Before leaving the room, Sylvester bent down and kissed his father's face, that looked shrunken in the dim light, and never had he felt such yearning love for him. Downstairs, he drew Simmons into the library.

“I am going to London to-night,” said he.

Simmons stared at him. “To London?” he queried.