“I’m so sorry you are upset,” continued the informer; “but to open your eyes is the truest kindness. I can’t imagine how they have kept it from you, all these years.”
“Kept what from me?” demanded the girl in a choking voice. “I can’t think why you are telling me these awful things. I believe you are inventing them.”
“Your father’s name is Blagdon—so is yours,” announced Miss Plassy with bland composure. “Hugo Blagdon of Sharsley Court, a magnificent place in Yorkshire. He is enormously rich; they say he has forty thousand a year—pounds—not francs!”
“Oh!”
“And you are his only child, and heiress.”
Cara’s amazement was such, that she was unable to utter a word, but her face worked convulsively. At last she stammered:
“This is a joke!”
“Not at all; I only wish it were my joke! When you were about three years old, your mother ran away with a good-looking officer, I forget his name; he did not marry her, and went to India. Afterwards, she and Mrs. Hesketh travelled about together, and we met them at Cannes. Later on, we saw in the papers that your mother had kidnapped you, from your nurse, and disappeared,—and here you are! What a funny chance coming across you at the Paradis!”
“So that’s the story—and it’s all true?”
Cara’s eyes glittered with excitement, her soft pink cheeks, were paler than usual.