Just then the act was called, and down the stairs we had to dash to take our places. We wore pages' dresses, and as we went Semantha stood in the doorway in her shabby street gown and followed us with wistful eyes—she did so love a page's costume.
When we were "off" we hastened back to our dressing room. Semantha was still there. She moved stiffly about, packing together her few belongings; but her manner silenced us. She had taken everything else, when her eyes fell upon a remnant of that evil-smelling soap. She paused a bit,
then in that same slow way she said, "You never, never used that soap after all, Clara?" and when I answered: "Oh, yes, I have. I've used it several times," she put her hand out quickly, and took the thing, and slipped it into her pocket, and then she stood a moment and looked about; and if ever anguish grew in human eyes, it slowly grew in hers. Her face was pale before; it was white now.
At last her eyes met mine, then a sudden tremor crossed her face from brow to chin, a piteous slow smile crept around her lips, and in that dull and hopeless tone she said, "You see, my fräulein, I'll never be a big actor after all," and turned her back upon me, and slowly left the room and the theatre, without one kiss or handshake, even from me. And I, who knew her, did not guess why. She went out of my life forever, stepping down to that lower world of which I had only heard, but by God's mercy did not know.
That same sad night a group of men, close-guarded, travelled to Columbus, that city of great prisons and asylums, and one of those guarded men was poor Semantha's lover, alas! her convicted lover now; and she, having cast from her her proudest hope, her high ambition, trusting a little in his innocence, trusting entirely in his love, now followed him steadily to the prison's very gate.
After this came a long silence. One girl had fallen from our ranks, but what of that? Another girl had taken her place. We were still four, marching on,—eyes front, step firm and regular,—ready when the quick order came quickly to obey. There could be no halt, no turning back to the help of the figure already growing dim, of one who had fallen by the wayside.
After a time rumours came to us, at first faint and vague—uncertain, then more distinct—more dreadful! And the stronger the rumours grew, the lower were the voices
with which we discussed them; since we were young, and vice was strange to us, and we were being forced to believe that she who had so recently been our companion was now—was—well, to be brief, she wore her rouge in daylight now upon the public street.
Poor, poor Semantha! They were playing "Hamlet," the night of the worst and strongest rumour, and as I heard Ophelia assuring one of her noble friends or relatives:—
"You may wear your rue with a difference,"