CHAPTER IX.
A week passed away, and again it was the night of Mrs. de Vere’s weekly reception.
The magnificent house was ablaze with light, and a band of music in the broad hall filled the air with strains of sweetest music.
In the drawing-room the friends of the hostess—fair women and gallant men—were dispersed in social groups, having just returned from the supper-room.
Mrs. de Vere was looking stately and beautiful as usual in a costume of trailing dead-white silk, with a necklace of pearls. The trying costume was relieved by the warm hue of her eyes and hair, and her admirers declared that she was looking her loveliest.
The mother-in-law, too, stately old lady that she was, came in for her share of admiration. Her handsome, high-bred face, with its large, dark eyes and frame of wavy, white hair, gave her a very distinguished air, and her black silk dress with point-lace fichu and diamond pin were very becoming.
But the handsome old face was clouded with pain and grief this evening, for in some way she had become aware of herson’s suspicions, and her loving heart was almost broken by his coldness. Her eyes followed him wistfully as he stood apart from her, trying to do his part in the gay scene, but with a brooding trouble in his deep, dark eyes, for the fate of little Sweetheart rested heavily on his mind.
In the week that had elapsed since the child’s disappearance, no clew to her whereabouts had been discovered. Unknown to any one, he had placed a clever detective on her track, but as yet he had received no tidings, and the suspense began to grow unbearable.
The lovely, winning child had wound herself around his heart in the two days when she had been his sole care. He who had saved her life felt himself responsible to her friends for her safe guardianship.
Already he had had inserted in several newspapers the story of the finding of the child and her mother’s tragic death. He hoped by this means to find Sweetheart’s friends.
But as days went by bringing no news from those to whom the child belonged, he began to feel a sort of relief at the silence, for if any one came to claim her, what was he to do, how answer for her loss?
To-night he was restless and ill at ease in spite of the fact that his capricious wife had been all sunshine for a week. Somehow her smiles and gayety seemed heartless, for she showed no anxiety, no sympathy over the loss that weighed so heavily on his conscience.
He glanced at her as she stood, the center of an admiring group, tall, stately, queen-like in her rich dress and jewels, and turning away with a heavy sigh, sought the seclusion of the grounds, eager for a few moments of solitude that he might drop the conventional smile that social courtesy demanded.
How sweet and cool and silent it was out there in the beautiful moonlight among the flowers! He drew a long breath and murmured:
“Ah, Little Sweetheart, where are you to-night? Are you living or dead? What would I not give to feel your soft little arms about my neck again, and see your sunny blue eyes looking into mine!”
Suddenly he saw the tall figure of a man advancing up the path toward the house. He thought he recognized him, and went hastily forward. It was, as he had thought, the detective he had employed to trace the missing child.
The man lifted his hat with a cry of pleasure.
“Ah, Mr. de Vere, I should not have ventured in so late,but I saw that you were entertaining company, so I thought I would wait about the grounds in the hope of seeing you.”
“You have news?” the young man exclaimed, eagerly.
“Yes. I have found the little girl.”