“No, she is nothing to me. She was adopted by my husband’s first wife just after the loss of her baby, and, as I understood, at the instigation of her nurse, who must have been this Mrs. Rogers. The first Mrs. Westbrooke was greatly attached to the child, and when she died she settled upon it forty pounds a year, and gave it expressly to the care of her maid.
“About a year after her death Mr. Westbrooke married me, and took me to his home in London. I did not like children, and this one was in my way, and as my husband did not care for it either, we gave it at last to the nurse, who took it to keep for her own. My first child was born soon after, and the next year we went to Florence, where my husband died, and where I have lived until within the last few months. Of Gertie I have never heard since. I was told that the nurse, Mary, was married and living comfortably; but from what you say I have no doubt that the young lady in question is the girl, and am glad she has fallen into so good hands. She was very pretty, with great blue eyes and bright auburn hair——”
“What was the name of the nurse?” Edith asked, and the lady replied:
“I don’t remember whom she married, but dare say it was Rogers. My housekeeper will know; she saw her married. Her maiden name was Stover,—Mary Stover.”
“Mary Stover!” and Edith started to her feet as quickly as if a heavy blow had smitten her. “Mary Stover,—tell me if you know where the child came from at first, who were her parents, and how came Mrs. Westbrooke by her?”
“I do not know as she had any parents, unless it were Mary Stover herself. I always suspected her of being the real mother, she was so attached to the child and so mysterious about it. She brought it to Mrs. Westbrooke from some Foundling Hospital, I believe, where her sister Anne was nurse.”
“Oh, Gertie, Gertie, thank Heaven,” Edith gasped, and the next moment she lay at her husband’s feet with a face as white and rigid and still as are the faces of the dead!
There was great excitement then in Mrs. Westbrooke’s rooms, ringing of bells, gathering of servants, and hurrying for physicians, three of whom came together and concurred in pronouncing it nothing worse than a fainting fit, from which the lady would soon recover.
“Shall I order a room for her here?” Mrs. Westbrooke asked, anxious to relieve herself as soon as possible from her rather troublesome guests.
The colonel, who knew Edith would be happier in their own apartments at the hotel, declined Mrs. Westbrooke’s offer, and as soon as consciousness returned took his wife in his arms, and, carrying her to the carriage waiting for them, was driven back to his hotel, where he laid her upon the couch, and then sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak.