She went straight to Lockwood’s side, and he took her hand calmly, and led her to a seat on the wide davenport, then sat beside her.
Her hand still in his, she told her story.
“I am of Truesdell blood,” she began, “as Mr. Trask surmised. But, also, I am of Waring blood. Doctor John Waring was my father.”
No one spoke. The surprise was too great. In his wildest theories, Fleming Stone had never thought of this.
Fibsy’s great astonishment was permeated with the quick conviction, “then she didn’t kill him!”
Gordon Lockwood was conscious of a rapturous reassurance that he had no rival as a lover.
Trask, already knowing the truth, sat gloomily realizing he was not the heir.
Anita, her beautiful face sad, yet proud to acknowledge her ancestry, went on:
“This is his story. When John Waring was twenty years old, he met a young woman—an actress—who so infatuated him that he married her. They were absolutely uncongenial and unfitted for one another, and after a few weeks, they agreed to separate. There was no question of divorce, they merely preferred to live apart. He sent her money at stated intervals but he pursued his quiet, studious life, and she her life of gayety and sport. She was a good woman—she _is_ a good woman—she is my mother.”
Another silence followed this disclosure. Is, she had said—not was. And John Waring her father!
Gordon Lockwood held her hand closely. He was content to listen. Whatever she could say could not lessen his love and adoration.
“I tell you this, for her sake and—my father’s also. There is no stigma to be attached to either, they were merely so utterly opposite in character and disposition that they could not live together.
“As I said, after a few weeks they separated, and—my father did not know of my birth. My mother would not let him know, lest he come back to her. She was a light-hearted, carefree girl, and while she loved me, she did not love my father. Later on—when I was about four, I think, she caused a notice of her death to be sent to my father. This was because she wanted to sever all connection, and take no chance of ever meeting him again. She was at that time a successful actress, and earned all the money she wanted. She adored me, she had no love affairs, she lived only for me and her art. Though a good actress, she was not widely renowned, and in California, where she had chosen to make her home, she was liked and respected. The climate just suited her love of ease, freedom and indolence—as a New England life of busy activity would have been impossible to her. I want you to understand my mother. She was—she is, a mere butterfly, caring only for trifles and simple gayety. Her home is charming, her personality, that of a delightful child. But her temperament is one that cannot stand responsibilities and chafes at demands. However, all that matters little. The facts are that John Waring, learning of his wife’s death, devoted himself utterly to his books and his study.