“Volpone. A little in a mist, but not dejected;
Never—but still myself.”
BEN JONSON: Volpone.
“Peregrine. Am I enough disguised?
Mer. Ay. I warrant you.
Per. Save you, fair lady.”—Ibid.
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The ill wind that had blown gout to Lord Lilburne had blown Lord Lilburne away from the injury he had meditated against what he called “the object of his attachment.” How completely and entirely, indeed, the state of Lord Lilburne’s feelings depended on the state of his health, may be seen in the answer he gave to his valet, when, the morning after the first attack of the gout, that worthy person, by way of cheering his master, proposed to ascertain something as to the movements of one with whom Lord Lilburne professed to be so violently in love,—“Confound you, Dykeman!” exclaimed the invalid,—“why do you trouble me about women when I’m in this condition? I don’t care if they were all at the bottom of the sea! Reach me the colchicum! I must keep my mind calm.”
Whenever tolerably well, Lord Lilburne was careless of his health; the moment he was ill, Lord Lilburne paid himself the greatest possible attention. Though a man of firm nerves, in youth of remarkable daring, and still, though no longer rash, of sufficient personal courage, he was by no means fond of the thought of death—that is, of his own death. Not that he was tormented by any religious apprehensions of the Dread Unknown, but simply because the only life of which he had any experience seemed to him a peculiarly pleasant thing. He had a sort of instinctive persuasion that John Lord Lilburne would not be better off anywhere else. Always disliking solitude, he disliked it more than ever when he was ill, and he therefore welcomed the visit of his sister and the gentle hand of his pretty niece. As for Beaufort, he bored the sufferer; and when that gentleman, on his arrival, shutting out his wife and daughter, whispered to Lilburne, “Any more news of that impostor?” Lilburne answered peevishly, “I never talk about business when I have the gout! I have set Sharp to keep a lookout for him, but he has learned nothing as yet. And now go to your club. You are a worthy creature, but too solemn for my spirits just at this moment. I have a few people coming to dine with me, your wife will do the honors, and—you can come in the evening.” Though Mr. Robert Beaufort’s sense of importance swelled and chafed at this very unceremonious conge, he forced a smile, and said:—
“Well, it is no wonder you are a little fretful with the gout. I have plenty to do in town, and Mrs. Beaufort and Camilla can come back without waiting for me.”
“Why, as your cook is ill, and they can’t dine at a club, you may as well leave them here till I am a little better; not that I care, for I can hire a better nurse than either of them.”
“My dear Lilburne, don’t talk of hiring nurses; certainly, I am too happy if they can be of comfort to you.”
“No! on second thoughts, you may take back your wife, she’s always talking of her own complaints, and leave me Camilla: you can’t want her for a few days.”
“Just as you like. And you really think I have managed as well as I could about this young man,—eh?”
“Yes—yes! And so you go to Beaufort Court in a few days?”
“I propose doing so. I wish you were well enough to come.”