XLI

For months Beverly Carlysle had remained a remote and semi-mysterious figure.  She had been in some hearts and in many minds, but to most of them she was a name only.  She had been the motive behind events she never heard of, the quiet center in a tornado of emotions that circled about without touching her.

On the whole she found her life, with the settling down of the piece to a successful, run, one of prosperous monotony.  She had re-opened and was living in the 56th Street house, keeping a simple establishment of cook, butler and maid, and in the early fall she added a town car and a driver.  After that she drove out every afternoon except on matinee days, almost always alone, but sometimes with a young girl from the company.

She was very lonely.  The kaleidoscope that is theatrical New York had altered since she left it.  Only one or two of her former friends remained, and she found them uninteresting and narrow with the narrowness of their own absorbing world.  She had forgotten that the theater was like an island, cut off from the rest of the world, having its own politics, its own society divided by caste, almost its own religion.  Out of its insularity it made occasional excursions to dinners and week-ends; even into marriage, now and then with an outlander.  But almost always it went back, eager for its home of dressing-room and footlights, of stage entrances up dirty alleys, of door-keepers and managers and parts and costumes.

Occasionally she had callers, men she had met or who were brought to see her.  She saw them over a tea-table, judged them remorselessly, and eliminated gradually all but one or two.  She watched her dignity and her reputation with the care of an ambitious woman trying to live down the past, and she succeeded measurably well.  Now and then a critic spoke of her as a second Maude Adams, and those notices she kept and treasured.

But she was always uneasy.  Never since the night he had seen Judson Clark in the theater had they rung up without her brother having carefully combed the house with his eyes.  She knew her limitations; they would have to ring down if she ever saw him over the footlights.  And the season had brought its incidents, to connect her with the past.  One night Gregory had come back and told her Jean Melis was in the balcony.

The valet was older and heavier, but he had recognized him.

“Did he see you?” was her first question.

“Yes.  What about it?  He never saw me but once, and that was at night and out of doors.”

“Sometimes I think I can’t stand it, Fred. The eternal suspense, the waiting for something to happen.”

“If anything was going to happen it would have happened months ago.  Bassett has given it up.  And Jud’s dead.  Even Wilkins knows that.”

She turned on him angrily.

“You haven’t a heart, have you?  You’re glad he’s dead.”