It was but little consolation to the old man. The disgrace at Chatham had been a terrible blow to him, and his tremendous exertions had told upon his shattered constitution. In despair he saw Charles return to the lap of his mistresses, indolent and profligate and careless as ever; and he fell back into the lethargy from which he had roused himself at his country's call. For some time it had been growing on him as his terrible disease advanced with secret strides. The following year dropsy declared itself, but still he clung to his post and occupied himself incessantly with the duties of his office. In the autumn, however, it became so bad, and was so complicated by an affection of the heart and lungs, that he was compelled to retire to Newhall, his seat in Essex, for rest and change of air. The old rumour that he had been poisoned was revived, and caused great anger among the people;[15] for in him shone the only ray of hope, the only spark of honesty amidst the night of treachery and corruption in which the country seemed lost. During the winter he grew worse, but still neglected all precautions. His extraordinary constitution had bred in him a contempt for medicine and an insuperable impatience of the restraints which medical treatment entailed. At last, however, being almost unable to breathe, he was induced to try some pills invented by an old soldier of his who had set up as a doctor. Strangely enough he experienced immediate relief, and by the end of the summer he returned to Whitehall thinking himself entirely cured. Once more he threw himself into the business of State with something of his old ardour, till with winter came a relapse to warn men that his end was near. Every one flocked to the Cockpit to pay his respects to the renowned invalid and to look once more upon the embodiment of the iron age that was past. Parliament was sitting, and the great strife between the Houses over Skinner's case was at its height. Lords and Commons called on their way from Westminster, and forgetful even then of all but his country's peace, the stout old general, as he sat up in his chair wearily gasping for breath, implored them to come to a good understanding. Sir John Grenville, now Earl of Bath, was assiduous in his attendance, and Gilbert Sheldon, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury, who all through the plague had stood unflinching by the general's side, prayed with him constantly. Even the laughter-loving King tore himself almost daily from the society of Lady Castlemaine to endure for a little while the distressing sight.