"Oh," I said, "you, who can change your nose or your mouth or your eyes at will, can make an ugly scar, easily enough," and off went hat and veil, and Mr. Lemoyne, using my countenance for his canvas, began work.
He grew more and more glum as he wiped off and repainted. One scar was too small—oh, much too small. Then the shattered jaw-bone was described. Again he tried. "Clara," he said, "I can't do it, because I don't know what I am aiming at!"
"Oh, go on!" I pleaded, "make a hideous scar, then I'll learn how from you, and do it myself."
He was patience and kindness personified, but when at last he said he could do no more, I looked in the glass, and—well, we both laughed aloud, in spite of our chagrin. He said: "It looks as though some street-boy had given you a swat in the eye with a chunk of mud."
I mournfully washed it off and begged him to try just once more—to-morrow; and he promised with a doleful air.
I had tears in my eyes as I left the theatre, I was so horribly cast down, for if Mr. Lemoyne could not make up that scar no one could. But he used too much black—that was a grave mistake, and—oh, dear! now what? Men were peeling up the stone walk. I could not go home by the Sixth Avenue car as usual, without a lot of bother and muddy shoes. I was just tired enough from rehearsal and disappointed enough to be irritated by the tiniest contretemps, and I almost whimpered, as I turned the other way and took a Broadway car. I dropped into a corner. Three men were on my side of the car. I glanced casually at them, and, "Goodness mercy!" said I to myself, "what are they gazing at—they look fairly frightened?"
I followed the direction of their eyes, and, I gasped! I felt goose-flesh creeping up my arms! On the opposite side sat a large and handsome mulatto woman, a small basket of white linen was on her knees, her face was turned toward the driver, and oh, good God! not so long ago, her throat had been cut almost from ear to ear!
The scar was hideous—sickening, it made one feel faint and frightened, but I held my quivering nerves with an iron hand—here was my scar for Cora! I must study it while I could. It had not been well cared for, I imagine, for the edges of the awful gash were puckered, as though a gathering thread held them. There was a queer, cord-like welt that looked white, while the flesh either side was red and threatening; and then, as if she felt my eyes, the woman turned and faced me. A dull color rose slowly over her mutilated throat and handsome face, and she felt hastily for a kerchief, which was pinned at the back of her dress-collar, and drew the ends forward and tied them.
I kept my eyes averted after that, but when I left the car weariness was forgotten. I stopped at a druggist's shop, bought sticking-plaster, gold-beaters' skin, and absorbent cotton, and with springy steps reached home, materials in hand, model in memory—I was content, I had found my scar at last!
If you are about to accuse me of hardness of heart in using, to my own advantage, this poor woman's misfortune, don't, or at least wait a moment first.