POOR SEMANTHA_

It has happened to every one of us, I don't know why, but every mother's

son or daughter of us can look back to the time when we habitually

referred to some acquaintance or friend as "poor So-and-So"; and the

curious part of it is that if one pauses to consider the why or

wherefore of such naming, one is almost sure to find that, financially

at least, "poor So-and-So" is better off than the person who is doing

the "pooring." Nor is "poor So-and-So" always sick or sorrowful, stupid

or ugly; and yet, low be it whispered, is there not always a trace of

contempt in that word "poor" when applied to an acquaintance? A very

slight trace, of course,--we lightly rub the dish with garlic, we do not

slice it into our salad. So when we call a friend "poor So-and-So,"

consciously or unconsciously, there is beneath all our affection the

slight garlic touch of contemptuous pity; how else could I, right to her

merry, laughing face, have called this girl poor Semantha?

I had at first no cause to notice her especially; she was poor, so was

I; she was in the ballet, so was I. True, I had already had heads nodded

sagely in my direction, and had heard voices solemnly murmur, "That

girl's going to do something yet," and all because I had gone on alone

and spoken a few lines loudly and clearly, and had gone off again,

without leaving the audience impressed with the idea that they had

witnessed the last agonized and dying breath of a girl killed by fright.

I had that much advantage, but we both drew the same amount of salary

per week,--five very torn and very dirty one-dollar bills. Of course

there could have been no rule nor reason for it, but it had so happened

that all the young women of the ballet--there were four--received their

salary in one-dollar bills. However, I was saying that we, the ballet,

dressed together at that time, and poor Semantha first attracted my

attention by her almost too great willingness to use my toilet soap,

instead of the common brown washing soap she had brought with her. At

some past time this soap must have been of the shape and size of a

building brick, but now it resembled a small dumb-bell, so worn was its

middle, so nobby its ends. Then, too, my pins were, to all intents and

purposes, her pins; my hair-pins her hair-pins; while worst of all, my

precious, real-for-true French rouge was _her_ rouge.

At that point I came near speaking, because poor Semantha was not

artistic in her make-up, and she painted not only her cheeks but her

eyes, her temples, her jaws, and quite a good sample of each side of

her neck. But just as I would be about to speak, I would bethink me of

those nights when, in the interest of art, I had to be hooked up behind,

and I would hold my peace.

On the artistic occasions alluded to, I hooked Semantha up the back, and

then Semantha hooked up my back. Ah, what a comfort was that girl; as a

hooker-up of waists she was perfection. No taking hold of the two sides

of the waist, planting the feet firmly, and taking a huge breath, as if

the Vendôme column was about to be overthrown. No hooking of two-thirds

of the hooks and eyes, and then suddenly unhooking them, remarking that

there was a little mistake at the top hook. No putting of thumbs to the

mouth to relieve the awful numbness caused by terrible effort and

pinching. Ah, no! Semantha smiled,--she generally did that,--turned you

swiftly to the light, caught your inside belt on the fly, as it were,

fastened that, fluttered to the top, exactly matched the top hook to

the top eye, and, high presto! a little pull at the bottom, a swift

smooth down beneath the arms, and you were finished, and you knew your

back was a joy until the act was over.

That was all I had known of Semantha. Probably it was all I ever should

have known had not a sharp attack of sickness kept me away from the

theatre for a time, during which absence Semantha made the discovery

which was to bring her nearer to me.

Finding my dressing place but a barren waste of pine board, Semantha

with smiling readiness turned to the dressing place on her left for a

pin or two, and was stricken with amazement when the milder of her two

companions remarked in a grudgingly unwilling tone, "You may take a few

of my pins and hair-pins if you are sure to pay them back again."

While she was simply stunned for a moment, when the other companion,

with that rare, straightforward brutality for which she became so

deservedly infamous later on, snorted angrily: "No, you don't! Don't you

touch anything of mine! You can't sponge on me as you do on Clara!"

Now Semantha was a German, as we were apt to find out if ever she grew

excited over anything; and whenever she had a strange word used to her,

she would repeat that word several times, first to make sure she fully

understood its meaning, next to impress it upon her memory; so there she

stood staring at her dressing mate, and slowly, questioningly repeated,

"Spoonge? spoonge? w'at is that spoonge?" And received for answer,

"_What is_ it? why, it's stealing." Semantha gave a cry. "Yes,"

continued the straightforward one, "it's stealing without secrecy;

that's what sponging is."

Poor Semantha--astonished, insulted, frightened--turned her quivering

face to the other girl and passionately cried, "Und she, my Fräulein

Clara, tink she dat I steal of her?"

Then for the first time, and I honestly believe the last time in her

life, that other pretty blond, but woolly-brained, young woman rose to

the occasion--God bless her--and answered stoutly, "No, Clara never

thought you were stealing."

So it happened that when I returned to work, and Semantha's excited and

very German welcome had been given, I noticed a change in her. When my

eyes met hers, instead of smiling instantly and broadly at me, her eyes

sank to the ground and her face flushed painfully. At last we were left

alone for a few moments. Quick as a flash, Semantha shut the door and

bolted it with the scissors. Then she faced me; but what a strange, new

Semantha it was! Her head was down, her eyes were down, her very body

seemed to droop. Never had I seen a human look so like a beaten dog. She

came quite close, both hands hanging heavily at her sides, and in a

low, hurried tone she began: "Clara, now Clara, now see, I've been usen

your soap--ach, it smells so goot!--nearly all der time!"--"Why," I

broke in, "you were welcome!"

But she stopped me roughly with one word, "Wait," and then she went on.

"Und der pins--why, I can't no more count. Und der hair-pins, und der

paint," (her voice was rising now), "oh, der lofely soft pink paint! und

I used dem, I used 'em all. Und I never t'ought you had to pay for dem

all. You see, I be so green, fräulein, I dun know no manners, und I did,

I did use dem, I know I did; but, so help me, I didn't mean to spoonge,

und by Gott I didn't shteal!"

I caught her hands, they were wildly beating at the air then, and said,

"I know it, Semantha, my poor Semantha, I know it."

She looked me brightly in the eyes and answered: "You do? you _truly_

know dat?" gave a great sigh, and added with a fervour I fear I

ill-appreciated, "Oh, I hope you vill go to heaven!" then quickly

qualified it, "dat is, dat I don't mean right avay, dis minute--only ven

you can't keep avay any longer!"

Then she sprang to her dress hanging on the hook, and after struggling

among the roots of her pocket, found the opening, and with triumph

breathing from every feature of her face, she brought forth a small

white cube, and cried out, "Youst you look at dat!"

I did; it seemed of a stony structure, white with a chill thin line of

pink wandering forlornly through or on it (I am sure nothing could go

through it); but the worst thing about it was the strange and evil smell

emanating from it. And this evil, white, hard thing had been purchased

from a pedler under the name of soap, fine shaving or toilet soap, and

now Semantha was delightedly offering it to me, to use every night, and

I with immense fervour promised I would use it, just as soon as my own

was gone; and I mentally registered a solemn vow that the shadow of my

soap should never grow less.

I soon discovered that poor Semantha was very ambitious; yes, in spite

of her faint German accent and the amusing abundance of negatives in her

conversation, she was ambitious. One night we had been called on to "go

on" as peasants and sing a chorus and do a country dance, and poor

Semantha had sung so freely and danced so gracefully and gayly, that it

was a pleasure to look at her. She was such a contrast to the two

others. One had sung in a thin nasal tone, and the expression of her

face was enough to take all the dance out of one's feet. With frowning

brows and thin lips tightly compressed, she attacked the figures with

such fell determination to do them right or die, that one could hardly

help hoping she _would_ make a mistake and take the consequences. The

other,--the woolly-brained young person,--having absolutely no ear for

music or time, silently but vigorously worked her jaws through the

chorus, and affably ambled about, under everybody's feet, through the

dance, displaying all the stiff-kneed grace of a young, well-meaning

calf.

When we were in our room, I told Semantha how well she had sung and

danced, and her face was radiant with delight. Then becoming very grave,

she said: "Oh, fräulein, how I vant to be an actor! Not a common van,

but" and she laid her hand with a childish gesture on her breast--"I

vant to be a big actor. Don' you tink I can ever be von--eh?"

And looking into those bright, intelligent, squirrel-like eyes, I

answered, "I think it is very likely," Poor Semantha! we were to recall

those simple remarks, later on.

Christmas being near, I was very busy working between acts upon

something intended for a present to my mother. This work was greatly

admired by all the girls; but never shall I forget the astonishment of

poor Semantha when she learned for whom it was intended.

"Your mutter lets you love her yet--you would dare?" And as I only gazed

dumbly at her, she went on, while slow tears gathered in her eyes, "My

mutter hasn't let me love her since--since I vas big enough to be

knocked over."

Through the talkativeness of an extra night-hand or scene-shifter, who

knew her family, I learned something of poor Semantha's private life.

Poor child! from the very first she had rested her bright brown eyes

upon the wrong side of life,--the seamy side,--and her own personal

share of the rough patchwork, composed of dismal drabs and sodden browns

and greens, had in it just one small patch of rich and brilliant

colour,--the theatre. Of the pure tints of sky and field and watery

waste and fruit and flower, she knew nothing. But what of that! had she

not secured this bit of rosy radiance, and might it not in time be added

to, until it should incarnadine the whole fabric of her life?

Semantha's father was dead; her mother was living--worse luck. For had

she been but a memory, Semantha would have been free to love and

reverence that memory, and it might have been as a very strong staff to

support her timid steps in rough and dangerous places. But alas! she

lived and was no staff to lean upon; but was, instead, an ever present

rod of punishment. She was a harmful woman, a destroyer of young

tempers, a hardener of young hearts. Many a woman of quick, short temper

has a kind heart; while even the sullenly sulky woman generally has a

few rich, sweet drops of the milk of human kindness, which she is

willing to bestow upon her own immediate belongings. But Semantha's

mother was not of these. How, one might ask, had this wretch obtained

two good husbands? Yes, Semantha had a stepfather, and the only excuse

for the suicidal marriage act as performed by these two victims was that

the woman was well enough to look upon--a trim, bright-eyed, brown

creature with the mark of the beast well hidden from view.

When Semantha, who was her first born, too, came home with gifts and

money in her hands, her mother received her with frowning brows and

sullen, silent lips. When the child came home with empty hands, and gave

only cheerfully performed hard manual labour, she was received with

fierce eyes, cruel rankling words, and many a cut and heavy blow, and

was often thrust from the house itself, because 'twas known the girl was

afraid of darkness.

[Illustration: _Clara Morris before coming to Daly's Theatre in 1870_]

Her stepfather then would secretly let her in, though sometimes she

dared go no farther than the shed, and there she would sit the whole

night through, in all the helpless agony of fright. But all this was as

nothing compared to the cruelty she had yet to meet out to poor

Semantha, whose greatest fault seemed to be her intense longing for some

one to love. Her mother _would not_ be loved, her own father had wisely

given the whole thing up, her step-father _dared_ not be loved. So, when

the second family began to materialize, Semantha's joy knew no bounds.

What a welcome she gave each newcomer! How she worked and walked and

cooed and sang and made herself an humble bond-maiden before them. And

they loved her and cried to her, and bit hard upon her needle stabbed

forefinger with their first wee, white, triumphant teeth, and for just a

little, little time poor Semantha was not poor, but very rich indeed.

And that strange creature, who had brought them all into the world,

looked on and saw the love and smiled a nasty smile; and Semantha saw

the smile, and her heart quaked, as well it might. For so soon as these

little men could stand firmly on their sturdy German legs, their gentle

mother taught them, deliberately taught them, to call their sister

names, the meaning being as naught to them, but enough to break a

sister's heart. To jeer at and disobey her, so that they became a pair

of burly little monsters, who laughed loud, affected laughter at the

word "love," and swore with many long-syllabled German oaths that they

would kick with their copper-toes any one who tried to kiss them. Ah!

when you find a fiercely violent temper allied to a stone-cold heart,

offer you up an earnest prayer to Him for the safety of the souls coming

under the dominion and the power of that woman.

I recall one action of Semantha's that goes far, I think, to prove what

a brave and loyal heart the untaught German girl possessed. She was very

sensitive to ridicule, and when people made fun of her, though she would

laugh good-humouredly, many times she had to keep her eyes down to hide

the brimming tears. Now her stepfathers name was a funny one to American

ears, and always provoked a laugh, while her own family name was not

funny. Yet because the man had shown her a little timid kindness, she

faithfully bore his name, and through storms of jeering laughter, clear

to the dismal end, she called herself Semantha Waacker.

Once we spoke of it, and she exclaimed in her excited way: "Yes, I am

alvays Waacker. Why not, ven he is so goot? Why, why, dat man, dat vater

Waacker, he have kissed me two time already. Vunce here" (placing her

finger on a vicious scar upon her check), "von de mutter cut me bad, und

vun odder time, ven I come very sick. Und de mutter seen him in de

glass, und first she break dat glass, und den she stand and smile a

little, und for days und days, when somebody be about, my mutter put out

de lips und make sounds like kisses, so as to shame de vater before

everybody. Oh, yes, let 'em laugh; he kiss me, und I stay Semantha

Waacker."

The unfortunate man's occupation was also something that provoked

laughter, when one first heard of it; but as Semantha herself was my

informant, and I had grown to care for her, I managed by a great effort

to keep my face serious. How deeply this fact impressed her, I was to

learn later on.

Christmas had come, and I was in high glee. I had many gifts, simple and

inexpensive most of them, but they were perfectly satisfactory to me. My

dressing-room mates had remembered me, too, in the most characteristic

fashion. The pretty, woolly-brained girl had with smiling satisfaction

presented me with a curious structure of perforated cardboard and gilt

paper, intended to catch flies. Its fragility may be imagined from the

fact that it broke twice before I got it back into its box; still there

was, I am sure, not another girl in Cleveland who could have found for

sale a fly-trap at Christmas time.

The straightforward one had presented me with an expensively repellent

gift in the form of a brown earthenware jug, a cross between a Mexican

idol and a pitcher. A hideous thing, calculated to frighten children or

sober drunken men. I know I should have nearly died of thirst before I

could have forced myself to swallow a drop of liquid coming from that

horrible interior.

Semantha was nervous and silent, and the performance was well on before

she caught me alone, out in a dark passageway. Then she began as she

always did when excited, with: "Clara, now Clara, you know I told my

vater of you, for dat you were goot to me, und he say, vat he alvays

say--not'ing. Dat day I come tell you vat his work vas, I vent home und

I say, 'Vater Waacker, I told my fräulein you made your livin' in de

tombstone yard,' und he say, quvick like, 'Vell,'--you know my vater no

speak ver goot English" (Semantha's own English was weakening

fast),--"'vell, I s'pose she make some big fool laugh, den, like

everybodies, eh?' Und I say, 'No, she don't laugh! de lips curdle a

little'" (curdle was Semantha's own word for tremble or quiver. If she

shivered even with cold, she curdled with cold), "'but she don't laugh,

und she say, "It vas the best trade in de vorldt for you, 'cause it must

be satisfactions to you to work all day long on somebody's tombstone."'"

"Oh, Semantha!" I cried, "why did you tell him that?"

"But vy not?" asked the girl, innocently. "Und he look at me hard, und

his mouth curdle, und den he trow back his head und he laugh, pig

laughs, und stamp de feet und say over und over, 'Mein Gott! mein Gott!

satisfackshuns ter vurk on somebody's tombstones--_some_body's. Und she

don't laugh at my vurk, nieder, eh? Vell, vell! dat fräulein she tinks

sometings! Say, Semantha, don't it dat you like a Kriss-Krihgle present

to make to her, eh?' Und I say, dat very week, dere have to be new shoes

for all de kinder, und not vun penny vill be left. Und he shlap me my

back, une! say, 'Never mindt, I'll make him,' und so he did, und here

it is," thrusting some small object into my hand. "Und if you laugh,

fräulein, I tink I die, 'cause it is so mean und little."

Then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder and

rushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the dark

with "it" in my hand. Poor Semantha! "it" lies here now, after all these

years; but where are you, Semantha? Are you still dragging heavily

through life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts are

hungry never more, but filled with love divine?

"It" is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectly

carved to imitate a tiny Bible. A pretty toy it is to other eyes; but to

mine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in my

possession, a far older one, which cost a human life.

Well, from that Christmas-tide Semantha was never quite herself again.

For a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing.

Then she became curiously absent-minded. She would stop sometimes in the

midst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixed

eyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediate

surroundings. Sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might be

making. Once I saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from the

theatre door with her. The night was bad, too, but I noticed that she

carried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in his

pocket, and I felt hurt and offended for her.

And then one night Semantha was late, and we wondered greatly, since she

usually came very early, the theatre being the one bright spot in life

to her. We were quite dressed, and were saying how lucky it was there

was no dance to-night, or it would be spoiled, when she came in. Her

face was dreadful; even the straightforward one exclaimed in a shocked

tone, "You must be awful sick!"

But Semantha turned her hot, dry-looking eyes upon her and answered

slowly and dully, "I'm not sick."

"Not sick, with that white face and those poor curdling hands?"

"I'm not sick, I'm going avay."

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,"

I could not help saying to myself that "rue" was not the only thing that

could be so treated, since we all had rouge upon our cheeks; yet

Semantha--ah, God forgive her--wore her rouge with a difference.

A little longer and we were all in Columbus, where a portion of each

season was passed, our manager keeping his company there during the

sitting of the legislature. We had secured boarding-houses,--the memory

of mine will never die,--and in fact our round bodies were beginning to

fit themselves to the square holes they were expected to fill for the

next few weeks, when we found ourselves sneezing and coughing our way

through that spirit-crushing thing they call a "February thaw."

Rehearsal had been long, and I was tired. I had quite a distance to

walk, and my mind was full of professional woe. Here was I, a ballet

girl who had taken a cold whose proportions simply towered over that

nursed by the leading lady's self; and as I slipped and slid slushily

homeward, I asked myself angrily what a fairy was to do with a

handkerchief,--and in heaven's name, what was that fairy to do without

one. The dresses worn by fairies--theatrical, of course--in those days

would seem something like a fairy mother-hubbard now, at all events a

home toilet of some sort, so very proper were they; but even so there

was no provision made for handkerchiefs, no thought apparently that

stage fairies might have colds in their star-crowned heads.

So as my wet skirt viciously slapped my icy ankles, I almost tearfully

declared to myself I would have to have a handkerchief, even though it

wore pinned to my wings, only who on earth could get it off in time for

me to use? Now if poor Semantha were only--and there I stopped, my eyes,

my mind, fixed upon a woman a little way ahead of me, who stood staring

in a window. Her figure drooped as though she were weary or very, very

sad, and I said to myself, "I don't know what you are looking at, but I

_do_ know it's something you want awfully," and just then she turned and

faced me. My heart gave a plunge against my side. I knew her. One

woman's glance, lightning-quick, mathematically true, and I had her

photograph--the last, the very last I ever took of poor Semantha.

As her eyes met mine, they opened wide and bright. The rosy colour

flushed into her face, her lips smiled. She gave a little forward

movement, then before I had completed calling out her name, like a flash

she changed, her brows were knit, her lips close-pressed, and all her

face, save for the shameful red sign on her cheeks, was very white. I

stood quite still--not so, she. She walked stiffly by, till on the very

line with me she shot out one swift, sidelong glance and slightly shook

her head; yet as she passed I clearly heard that grievous sound that

coming from a woman's throat tells of a swallowed sob.

Still I stood watching her as she moved away, regardless quite of watery

pool or deepest mud; she marched straight on and at the first corner

disappeared, but never turned her head. As she had left me first without

good-by, so she met me now without a greeting, and passed me by without

farewell. And I, who knew her, understood at last the reason why. Poor

wounded, loyal heart, who would deny herself a longed-for pleasure

rather than put the tiniest touch of shame upon so small a person as a

ballet girl whom one year ago she had so lovingly called friend.

At last I turned to go. As I came to the window into which Semantha had

so lovingly been gazing, I looked in too, and saw a window full of fine,

thick underwear for men.

Two crowded, busy years swept swiftly by before I heard once more, and

for the last time, of poor Semantha. I was again in Columbus for a short

time, and was boarding at the home of one of the prison wardens.

Whenever I could catch this man at home, I took pains to make him talk,

and he told me many interesting tales. They were scarcely of a nature to

be repeated to young children after they had gone to bed, that is, if

you wanted the children to stay in bed; but they were interesting, and

one day the talk was of odd names,--his own was funny,--and at last he

mentioned Semantha's. Of course I was alert, of course I questioned

him--how often I have wished I had not. For the tale he told was sad.

Nothing new, nay, it was common even; but so is "battle, murder, and

sudden death," from which, nevertheless, we pray each day to be

delivered. Ah! his tale was sad if common.

It seemed that when Semantha followed that treacherous young brute, her

convicted lover, she had at first obtained a situation as a servant, so

she could not come to the prison every visiting day, and what was worse

in his eyes, she was most poorly paid, and had but very small sums to

spend upon extras for him. He grumbled loudly, and she was torn with

loving pity. Then quite suddenly she was stricken down with sickness,

and her precious brute had to do without her visits for a time and the

small comforts she provided for him, until one visiting day he fairly

broke down and roared with rage and grief over the absence of his

tobacco.

The hospital sheltered Semantha as long as the rules permitted, but

when she left it she was weak and worn and homeless, and as she crept

slowly from place to place, a woman old and well-dressed spoke to her,

calling her Mamie Someone, and then apologized for her mistake. Next she

asked a question or two, and ended by telling Semantha she was the very

girl she wanted--to come with her. She could rest for a few days at her

home, and after that she should have steady employment and better pay,

and--oh! did I not tell you it was a common tale?

But when on visiting day the child with frightened eyes told what she

had discovered about her new home, the soulless monster bade her stay

there, and every dollar made in her new accursed trade was lavished upon

him.

By a little sickness and a great deal of fraud the wretch got himself

into the prison hospital for a time, and there my informant learned to

know the pair quite well. She not only loved him passionately, but she

had for all his faults of selfishness and general ugliness the tender

patience of a mother. And he traded upon her loving pity by pretending

he could obtain the privilege of this or immunity from that if he had

only so many dollars to give to the guard or keeper. And she, poor

loving fool, hastened a few steps farther down the road of shame to

obtain for him the money, receiving in return perhaps a rough caress or

two that brought the sunshine to her heart and joy into her eyes.

His term of imprisonment was nearly over, and Semantha was preparing for

his coming freedom. His demands seemed unending. His hat would be

old-fashioned, and his boots and his undergarments were old, etc. Then

he wanted her to have two tickets for Bellefontaine ready, that they

might leave Columbus at once, and Semantha was excited and worried. "One

day," said the warden, "she asked to see me for a moment, and I

exclaimed at sight of her, 'What is it that's happened?'

"Her face was fairly radiant with joy, and she shook all over. It seemed

as though she could not speak at first, and then she burst forth, 'Mr.

S----, now Mr. S----, you don't much like my poor boy, but joust tink

now how goot he is! Ach, Gott, he tells me ven all der tings are got,

und de tickets too, have I some money left I shall buy a ring, und

then,'--she clutched my arm with both her hands, and dropped her head

forward on them, as she continued in a stifled voice,--und then we go to

a minister and straight we get married.'

"And," continued Mr. S----, "as I looked at her I caught myself wishing

she were dead, that she might escape the misery awaiting her.

"At last the day came. Her lover and a pal of his went out together.

Faithful Semantha was awaiting him, and was not pleased at the pal's

presence, and was more distressed still when her lover refused to go to

the shelter she had prepared for him, in which he was to don his new

finery, but insisted upon going with his friend. Semantha yielded, of

course, and on the way her lover laughed and jested--asked for the

tickets, then the ring, and putting on the latter declared that he was

married to _her_ now, and would wear the ring until they saw the

'Bible-sharp,' and then she should be married to _him_; and Semantha

brightened up again and was happy.

"They came at last to the house they sought. It was a low kind of

neighbourhood, had a deserted look, and was next door to a saloon. The

pal said there were no women in the house, and Semantha had better not

come in. The lover bade her wait, and they went in and closed the door,

and left the girl outside. There she waited such a weary time, then at

last she rang--quite timidly at first, then louder, faster, too, and a

scowling fellow from the saloon told her that the house was empty. She

rang wildly then, until he threatened a policeman. Then she ceased, but

walked round to the back and found its rear connected with a stable

yard. She came back again, dazed and white, her hand pressed to her

heart, and as she stood there a lad who hung about the prison grounds a

good deal, did odd jobs or held a horse now and then, and who knew

Semantha well, came along and cried out, 'I say, why didn't you go with

yer feller and his pal?'

"'She didn't say nary a word,' said the boy, 'she didn't say nary a

word, but pushed her head out and looked at me till her eyes glared same

as a cat's, and I says: "Why, I seed 'em ketch the 4.30 train to

Bellefontaine! They had to run and jump to do it, but they didn't scare

a darn, they just laughed and laughed." And, Boss, something like a

tremble, but most like my dog when I beats him, and I have the stick up

to hit him again, and not a word did she say, but just stood as still

as still after that doglike tremble went away. I got muddled, and at

last I says, "Semantha, hav' yer got no sponds?" She didn't seem to see

me no more, nor hear me, and I goes on louder like, "Say, Semantha!

where yer goin' to? what yer goin' ter do now?" and, Boss, she done the

toughest thing I ever seen. She jes' slowly lifted up her hands and

looked at 'em, looked good and long, like they were strange to her, and

then jes' as slow she turns 'em over, they were bare and empty, and the

palms was up, and she spreads the fingers wide apart and moves 'em a

bit, and then without raisin' up her eyes, she jes' smiles a little

slow, slow smile.

"'And then she turned 'round and walked away without nary a word at all;

but, Boss, her shoulders sagged down, and her head kind of trembled, and

she dragged her feet along jes' like an old, old woman, what was too

tired to live. I was skeered like, and thought I'd come here and tell

you, but I looked back to watch her. 'Twas almost dark then, and when

she came to the crossin', the wind was blowin' so she could hardly

stand, but she stopped awhile and looked down one street, then she

looked down the other street, and then she lifts up her face right to

the sky the longest time of all, and so I looks up ter see was ther'

anything there; but ther' wasn't nothin' but them dirty, low-hangin'

clouds as looks so rainy and so lonesome. And then right of a suddent

she gives a scream; but no, not a scream, a groan and a scream together.

It made my blood turn cold, I tell yer; and she trows both her empty

hands out from her, and says as plain as I do now, Boss, "My God, it is

too much! I cannot, cannot bear it!" Then she draw'd herself up quite

tall, shut her hands tight before her, and walked as fast as feet could

carry her straight toward the river.'"

And that was the last that he, my friend, had ever heard of poor

Semantha. I tried to dry my falling tears, but he dried them more

effectually by remarking:--

"Yes, she was a bright, promising, true-hearted girl; but you see she

went wrong, and the sinner has to pay both here and hereafter."

"Don't," I hotly cried. "Don't go on! don't! Sin? sin? Don't hurl that

word at her, the embodiment of self-sacrifice! Sin? where there is no

law, there can be no sin. And who had taught her anything? She was a

heathen. So far as one person can be the cause of another person's

wrong-doing, so far was Semantha's mother the guilty cause of Semantha's

loving fall. She was a heathen. She had been taught just one law--that

she was always to serve other people. That law she truly kept unto the

end. Of that great book, the Bible, closely packed with all sustaining

promises, she knew naught. I tell you the only Bible she ever held

within her hand was that mimic one of marble her father carved for me.

She was a heathen. Of that all-enduring One--'chief among ten thousand

and altogether lovely,' for whom there was no thing too small to love,

no sin too great to pardon--she knew nothing. Even that woman who with

wide-open, lustrous eyes had boldly broken every law human and divine,

yet was forgiven her uncounted sins, because of her loving faith and

true repentance, Semantha knew not of, nor of repentance nor its

necessity, nor its power.

"Let her alone! I say, she was a heathen. But even so, God made her. God

placed her; and if she fell by the wayside in ignorance, she _did not_

fall from the knowledge of her Maker."