The Argosy — page 257: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

238 Lady Postlethwaite’s Wall. and piles of old rusty bunches which Letty, her eyes full of tears, threw down before me; or I was reading the will and turning the pages over in vain search of the last sheet, while the Colonel laid his heavy hand on my shoulder and sang his jovial chorus in my ear. Always the two together, and always connected by some notion of foul play and derision. I awoke fagged and unrefreshed and seriously concerned about my state of health. I had no time to attend to it just then, however, and by midday had almost forgotten my troubles. My friend asked me to dinner to meet another old schoolfellow, a young doctor named Mellor. We looked in at a theatre after dinner, and they both walked home with me. We had a good deal to talk over about old times, and lingered sauntering up and down one side of our sober, old-fashioned square, almost deathlike in its stillness after the noisy Strand. At last I ran up our steps and rang the bell, then suddenly turned chill and faint, catching hold of Mellor’s arm. ‘‘ What’s that ?” “This ?” said Mellor, surprised, stooping and picking up a white long-folded paper that lay at my feet. ‘‘Something of yours. I didn’t see you drop it, though.” I held out a shaking hand. 7Z/zs could be no delusion. I touched, I held, I saw—distinctly as ever I did—Lady Postlethwaite’s will, I turned it over. I saw in the bright moonlight the red ribbon fastened with the great red seal. I read the two gothic letters ‘J. P.,” and saw the endorsement in the precise old hand: “ Elizabeth Postlethwaite, 16th February, 1888.” I knew Mellor was wondering at me as I stood gazing stupidly. Then came the clatter of a boy’s feet on the pavement and a youth cantered up gaily. ‘‘Beg pardon, sir. Have you seen a parcel? Yes, sir; that’s it. Thought I must have dropped it here. Left a note in your box from Johnson and Palliser just now.” The front door opened, letting out a blaze of gas, in which I saw in my hand a commonplace parcel fastened with an ordinary twist of string, with no resemblance to the will but in size. I gave it up in such confusion that Mellor looked oddly at me. ** Aren’t you well, Austen ? ” *“T don’t know. Come in. I want to consult you.” He looked serious over my story, asked a string of questions, and ended by pronouncing it a case of hallucination, brought on by debility and over-work. Could I not take a holiday at once? I demurred. Next thing to impossible in my father’s absence. “Then Dll write you a prescription for a composing draught. Let me know how you feel after a night of unbroken sleep.” He did so. I had a night of sweet, dreamless sleep, and felt so well next morning that I wrote in the joy of my heart to say so. I was interrupted by my clerk before I had finished the first few lines. When I read them over they ran as follows :— CORNIELIOOLKS (E() m