Under an affected carelessness of demeanor, and though there was no outward demonstration of doubt upon his patron’s part since the quarrel between the two lords, Harry yet saw that Lord Castlewood was watching his guest very narrowly; and caught sight of distrust and smothered rage (as Harry thought) which foreboded no good.  On the point of honor Esmond knew how touchy his patron was; and watched him almost as a physician watches a patient, and it seemed to him that this one was slow to take the disease, though he could not throw off the poison when once it had mingled with his blood.  We read in Shakspeare (whom the writer for his part considers to be far beyond Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dryden, or any of the wits of the present period,) that when jealousy is once declared, nor poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the East, will ever soothe it or medicine it away.

In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to this young physician (who, indeed, young as he was, had felt the kind pulses of all those dear kinsmen), that Harry thought it would be his duty to warn my Lord Mohun, and let him know that his designs were suspected and watched.  So one day, when in rather a pettish humor his lordship had sent to Lady Castlewood, who had promised to drive with him, and now refused to come, Harry said—­“My lord, if you will kindly give me a place by your side I will thank you; I have much to say to you, and would like to speak to you alone.”

“You honor me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry Esmond,” says the other, with a very grand bow.  My lord was always a fine gentleman, and young as he was there was that in Esmond’s manner which showed that he was a gentleman too, and that none might take a liberty with him—­so the pair went out, and mounted the little carriage, which was in waiting for them in the court, with its two little cream-colored Hanoverian horses covered with splendid furniture and champing at the bit.

“My lord,” says Harry Esmond, after they were got into the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun’s foot, which was swathed in flannel, and put up rather ostentatiously on a cushion—­“my lord, I studied medicine at Cambridge.”

“Indeed, Parson Harry,” says he; “and are you going to take out a diploma:  and cure your fellow-students of the—­”

“Of the gout,” says Harry, interrupting him, and looking him hard in the face; “I know a good deal about the gout.”

“I hope you may never have it.  ’Tis an infernal disease,” says my lord, “and its twinges are diabolical.  Ah!” and he made a dreadful wry face, as if he just felt a twinge.

“Your lordship would be much better if you took off all that flannel—­it only serves to inflame the toe,” Harry continued, looking his man full in the face.

“Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?” says the other, with an innocent air.

“If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper away, and wore a boot,” continues Harry.