The Eyes of the World | Page 7

car. The young man, in passing,
glanced down; and the woman, who had taken the chair next to the
aisle, looked up full into his face.
Again, as their eyes met, the man felt--as when they had stood so close
together on the platform of the observation car--that she did not shrink
from him. It was only for an instant. Then, glancing about for a seat, he

saw another face--a face, in its outlines, so like the one into which he
had just looked, and yet so different--so far removed in its expression
and meaning--that it fixed his attention instantly--compelling his
interest.
As this woman sat looking from the car window away toward the
distant mountain peaks, the young man thought he had never seen a
more perfect profile; nor a countenance that expressed such a beautiful
blending of wistful longing, of patient fortitude, and saintly resignation.
It was the face of a Madonna,--but a Madonna after the
crucifixion,--pathetic in its lonely sorrow, inspiring in its spiritual
strength, and holy in its purity and freedom from earthly passions.
She was near his mother's age; and looking at her--as he moved down
the aisle--his mother's face, as he had known it before their last meeting,
came to him with startling vividness. For an instant, he paused, moved
to take the chair beside her; but the next two seats were vacant, and he
had no excuse for intruding. Arranging his grips, he quickly seated
himself next to the window; and again, with eager interest, turned
toward the woman in the chair ahead. Involuntarily, he started with
astonishment and pity.
The woman--still gazing from the window at the distant mountain
peaks, and seemingly unconscious of her surroundings--presented now,
to the man's shocked and compassionate gaze, the other side of her face.
It was hideously disfigured by a great scar that--covering the entire
cheek and neck--distorted the corner of the mouth, drew down the
lower lid of the eye, and twisted her features into an ugly caricature.
Even the ear, half hidden under the soft, gray-threaded hair, had not
escaped, but was deformed by the same dreadful agent that had
wrought such ruin to one of the loveliest countenances the man had
ever looked upon.
When the train stopped at Fairlands, and the passengers crowded into
the aisle to make their way out, of the characters belonging to my story,
the woman with the man and his daughter went first. Following them, a
half car-length of people between, went the woman with the disfigured
face.

On the depot platform, as they moved toward the street, the young man
still held his place near the woman who had so awakened his pitying
interest. The three Overland passengers were met by a heavy-faced
thick-necked man who escorted them to a luxurious touring car.
The invalid and his daughter had entered the automobile when their
escort, in turning toward the other member of the party, saw the woman
with the disfigured face--who was now quite near. Instantly, he paused.
And there was a smile of recognition on his somewhat coarse features
as, lifting his hat, he bowed with--the young man
fancied--condescending politeness. The woman standing by his side
with her hand upon the door of the automobile, seeing her companion
saluting some one, turned--and the next moment, the two women,
whose features seemed so like--yet so unlike--were face to face.
The young man saw the woman with the disfigured face stop short. For
an instant, she stood as though dazed by an unexpected blow. Then,
holding out her hands with a half-pleading, half-groping gesture, she
staggered and would have fallen had he not stepped to her side.
"Permit me, madam; you are ill."
She neither spoke nor moved; but, with her eyes fixed upon the woman
by the automobile, allowed him to support her--seemingly unconscious
of his presence. And never before had the young man seen such
anguish of spirit written in a human countenance.
The one who had saluted her, advanced--as though to offer his services.
But, as he moved toward her, she shrank back with a low--"No, no!"
And such a look of horror and fear came into her eyes that the man by
her side felt his muscles tense with indignation.
Looking straight into the heavy face of the stranger, he said curtly, "I
think you had better go on."
With a careless shrug, the other turned and went back to the automobile,
where he spoke in a low tone to his companions.

The woman, who had been watching with a cold indifference, stepped
into the car. The man took his seat by the chauffeur. As the big
machine moved away, the woman with the disfigured face, again made
as if to stretch forth her hands in a pleading gesture.
The young man spoke pityingly; "May I