CHAPTER I

THE LIFE OF AN ACTRESS

O

H, these early spring days in New York, when the lingering frostiness of the passing winter is blended with the soft zephyrs which April brings with her promise of warmer days! The air exhilarates, the sunshine is brilliancy itself. The city parks, like oases in a desert, are resplendent with beds of gorgeous tulips, daffodils, and the more modest crocus. Vying with Nature comes the spectacle of Easter week, that carnival of fashion. It is four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and the tide of humanity is flowing in never-ceasing waves down Fifth Avenue. From the Park with its horseback riders cantering along the bridle path, the steady stream of fine equipages bowling along the drive, the white-capped nurses guiding the perambulators of the infant millionaires, to the throng of shoppers, promenaders and sight-seeing tourists on Broadway and the Avenue, all is life, life filled to the brim with the joy-giving draughts of the intoxicating air of spring in gay New York. No other place is like it the whole world over.

The beauty of the day was reflected in the face of Bettina Germaine as she wended her way along Fifth Avenue. Many a head was turned to watch her as she walked rapidly along. She wore a becoming costume of blue and a large hat with nodding plumes of the same rich shade.

"Who is that girl in blue?" asks more than one promenader of his companion. If he is a typical New Yorker, and as such a frequenter of the attractions of the Great White Way, the ready reply is:

"Why, that's Bettina Germaine, the little Quakeress at the Lyric. She's the brightest star on Broadway."

Bettina felt the charm of these warm days, harbingers of summer; they were more bracing to her than the crispest winter breezes, for were they not forerunners of the time when she would be free? Free to leave the mimic life, and live in her own sweet thought for a few weeks at least. The winter had passed so quickly it seemed hardly a month since the dull rainy morning that greeted her on her return from Maine, and yet the calendar had numbered nearly seven months since she first appeared in the principal rôle in "The Quakeress and the Sailor," and scored an instantaneous success. Her salary was a large one, and the twenty-dollar bill she sent each week to the Grand Master for Miriam seemed to serve to lessen the feeling of distance between them. She had just

dispatched to Maine a package containing dainty summer garments, and a snowy white Bunny, a souvenir of Easter for Miriam, and her mind was dwelling on the memory of the Grand Master's voice. She fell to wondering, as she often did, under what circumstances they would meet, for a meeting was inevitable, should she ever claim her little daughter. A voice at her elbow startled her from her reverie. She paused and turned slightly, to meet the smiling face of John Worthington Garland, or Jack Garland, as his intimates called him.

"And how is Miss Germaine to-day?" he inquired, lifting his hat and adapting his step to hers.

"Very well, indeed, thank you," she replied. "What an enthusiastic house we had last night, didn't we?”

"Uproarious is the better term, to my mind. Those football teams always wake things up. I hope no one troubled you after the show?" And he looked anxiously in her face. "That young

chap who got the rose had to defend his right to it in the lobby. There was a regular scrimmage. I thought at one time we'd have to call in the police."

"Oh, I'm sorry! I always try to throw it to some lady, but the boys were so cordial, and that group I threw it into seemed more gentlemanly than the others."

"You got home all right?"

"Yes, indeed. There were a few Johnnies around the stage door, but Milly and I just walked right by. They had no use for us!" And she laughed lightly.

"Will a cup of tea tempt you, Friend Cecelia? " he asked, addressing her by the name she bore in the comedy. They were just passing the Waldorf. Bettina shook her head.

"It is not that I am afraid of 'Your villainous demi-tasses,' as the song goes," and she gave him an arch glance from under her long lashes, "but I seldom indulge between meals. You know I am a very methodical person. Oh, I am, you needn't smile! To-night I am in somewhat of a hurry, as I have something I want to do before going to the theater, and it is now five. Thank you for the thought. It is like you."

His face flushed with pleasure. He wondered if she really meant what she said, and if she was in earnest about getting home early. He didn't like to think that she would prevaricate; his experience with women had impressed him with the ease with which they did such things, but Miss Germaine had always seemed different from any woman he had known. The mental atmosphere about her was free from affectation or deceit.

"Then may I walk home with you?" he ventured to ask, bending upon her his most gracious

smile, his strong white teeth gleaming from beneath the white mustache.

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Why certainly, if you like. But I shall not ask you in."

"As thou desireth, so be it, little Quakeress." And again he fell to wondering why this seeming avoidance; and yet he knew that he was foolish to indulge in such suspicions, for she had given him much of her time these past weeks sitting for her portrait painted in the Quaker costume. The picture was finished and the morrow was the day set for placing it in its frame.

The picture should have been finished two weeks ago, but he had taken the work leisurely, from choice; he liked to talk to her and he liked to hear her voice speaking to him. Truth was, he felt decidedly attracted toward this little woman whose hair with its bluish shadows had been the despair of the artist. She had stimulated his ambition and aroused in him a more healthful thought regarding his work. He knew he had fallen into a morbid strain and was glad of this awakening to higher ideals.

What a surprise she had been to everyone but Sam! Wise old Sam Williams; he knew she would make good, and she had. She sang like a bird, danced like a sylph, and her speaking voice, the greatest charm in woman, was like the chime of silver bells. Everyone liked her, from the box office to the stage door, and yet off the stage she