ee Castles" sure
enough, and was presently laid up with the small-pox, which spared the
Hall no more than it did the cottage.

Chapter IX. I Have The Small-Pox, And Prepare To Leave Castlewood

When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that malady, and returned
to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also suffered and
rallied after the disease, and the lady his mother was down with it, with
a couple more of the household. "It was a providence, for which we all
ought to be thankful," Doctor Tusher said, "that my lady and her son were
spared, while Death carried off the poor domestics of the house;" and
rebuked Harry for asking, in his simple way--for which we ought to be
thankful--that the servants were killed, or the gentlefolks were saved? Nor
could young Esmond agree in the doctor's vehement protestations to my
lady, when he visited her during her convalescence, that the malady had
not in the least impaired her charms, and had not been churl enough to
injure the fair features of the Viscountess of Castlewood, whereas in
spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her ladyship's beauty was
very much injured by the smallpox. When the marks of the disease cleared
away, they did not, it is true, leave furrows or scars on her face (except
one, perhaps, on her forehead over her left eyebrow); but the delicacy of
her rosy colour and complexion were gone: her eyes had lost their
brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face looked older. It was as if a
coarse hand had rubbed off the delicate tints of that sweet picture, and
brought it, as one has seen unskilful painting-cleaners do, to the dead
colour. Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after the malady,
her ladyship's nose was swollen and redder.

There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but that they
actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the world, where a gnat
often plays a greater part than an elephant, and a mole-hill, as we know
in King William's case, can upset an empire. When Tusher in his courtly
way (at which Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully) vowed and
protested that my lady's face was none the worse--the lad broke out and
said, "It _is_ worse: and my mistress is not near so handsome as she was";
on which poor Lady Esmond gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little
Venice glass she had, which showed her I suppose that what the stupid boy
said was only too true, for she turned away from