husband’s expression across a crowded drawing room or ballroom, and anticipating the wild rages they would both let loose when they came home.
Sometimes after the quarrels he would retire to his room, slamming the door that connected their dressing rooms behind him. Sometimes they would end up together in her bed, the heat of anger turned to the heat of sexual passion.
The night before had not been one of those latter occasions. She had dragged the Star of Bethlehem from her finger and hurled it at his head and screeched something to the effect that since the ring had become meaningless, he might have it back and welcome to it. And he had yelled something about its being less likely to scratch the cheeks of her lovers if she were not wearing it. And he had stalked out, leaving the door vibrating on its hinges.
And now she really was without the ring. No, worse. She had the shell of it left, just as the shell of her marriage still remained. The star was gone-from the ring and from her marriage.
She was taken by surprise when a loud and painful hiccup of a sob broke the silence of the room, and even more surprised when she realized that the sound had come from her. But it was a wonderful balm to her self-pity, she found. She allowed herself the rare indulgence of an extended and noisy cry.
It was all his fault. Nasty, unfeeling, sneering, cold, jealous monster!
She hated him. She did not care that the ring was ruined. What did she care for his ring? Or for him?Or for their marriage? She would be delighted to go home with Mama and Papa when Christmas was over. She would stay with them, surrounded by all the peace and familiarity of her childhood home. She would forget about the turmoil and nightmare of the past two years. She would forget about Allan.
“Allan.”
The name was spoken on a wail. She looked down at the ring and sniffed wetly and noisily.
“Allan.”
She drew back her arm suddenly and hurled the ring with all her strength across the room. She heard it tinkle as it hit something, but she did not go in pursuit of it. She rushed into her dressing room and slammed the door firmly behind her.
Two minutes passed after the slamming of the door before there came a rustling from the direction of the cold chimney followed by a quiet plop and the appearance of a tiny, ragged, soot-smeared figure among the ashes. After looking cautiously around and stooping for a moment to grub about among the ashes, it stepped gingerly out into the room and revealed itself as a child.
The chimney sweep’s boy looked briefly down at the diamond in his hand, a jewel he had mistaken for a shard of glass until he had overheard the conversation of the man and woman. His eyes darted about the room, taking in the door through which the woman had disappeared, and close to which she must have been standing while she was crying and when he had heard the tinkling sound.
She must have thrown the ring they had been talking about. It was just the sort of thing women did when they were in a temper.
His mind tried to narrow the search by guessing in which direction she would have thrown the ring from that particular door. But his wits really did not need sharpening, he saw as soon as he turned his eyes in the direction that seemed most likely. It was lying on the carpet in the open, the light from the window sparkling off the gold band.
What queer coves these rich people were, giving up the search for the diamond after only half an hour, if the woman was to be believed-and the man had not even searched at all. And throwing a gold band set full of precious stones across a room and leaving it lying there on the floor for anyone to take.
The child darted across the room, scooped up the ring, and pulled a dirty rag from somewhere about his person. He stopped when he had one foot back among the ashes, and tied his two treasures securely inside the rag. He must get back to old Thomas. The sweep would be hopping mad by now, and the old excuse of getting lost among the maze of chimneys had been used only three days before.
However, the child thought with a philosophy born of necessity, today’s haul would probably be worth every stinging stroke of old Thomas’s hand.
As long as he did not use his belt. Even the costliest jewel did not seem quite consolation enough for the strappings he sometimes got from the sweep’s belt.
The boy had both feet in the grate and was about to pull himself up into the darkness and soot of the chimney when the door through which the lady had disappeared opened abruptly again. He started to cry pitifully.
Estelle, now clad in a morning dress of fine white wool, even though her hair was still about her shoulders in a dark cloud, stopped in amazement.
The child wailed and scrubbed his clenched fists at his eyes.
“What is it?” she said, hurrying across the room to the fireplace and stooping down to have a better look at the apparition standing there.
“You must be the chimney sweep’s boy. Oh, you poor child.”
The last words were spoken after she had had a good look at the grimy, skeletal frame of the child and the indescribable filth of his person and of his rags. Hair of indeterminate color stood up from his head in stiff and matted spikes. Two muddy tracks flowed from his eyes to his chin. He looked as if he were no older than five or six.
“It’s dark up there,” he wailed. “I can’t breathe.”
“You shouldn’t be climbing chimneys,” she said. “You are just a baby.”
The child sniffed wetly and breathed out on a shuddering sob. “I got lost,” he said. “It’s dark up there.”
“Oh, you poor child.” Estelle reached out a hand to touch him, hesitated, and took hold of one thin arm. “Step out here. The ashes will cut your poor feet.”
The boy started to cry in noisy earnest again. “He’ll… thrash… me,” he got out on three separate sobs. “I got lost.”
“He will not thrash you,” Estelle said indignantly, taking hold of the child’s other arm with her free hand and helping him step out onto the carpet. He was skin and bones, she thought in some horror. He was just a frightened, half-starved little baby. “He will certainly not thrash you.
I shall see to that. What is your name?”
“N-Nicky, missus,” the boy said, and he hung his head and wrapped one skinny leg about the other and sniffed loudly.
“Nicky,” she said, and she reached out and tried to smooth down the hair on top of his head. But it was stiff with dirt. “Nicky, when did you last eat?”
The child began to wail.
“Have you eaten today?” she asked.
He shuffled his shoulders back and forth and swayed on one leg. He muttered something.
“What?” she said gently. She was down on her knees looking into his face. “Have you eaten?”
“I don’t know, missus,” he said, his chin buried on his thin chest. And he rubbed the back of his hand over his wet nose.
“Did your master not give you anything to eat this morning?” she asked.
“I ain’t to get fat,” he said, and the wails grew to a new crescendo.
“I’m so hungry.”
“Oh, you poor, poor child.” There were tears in Estelle’s eyes. “Does your mama know that you are kept half- starved? Have you told her?”
“I ain’t got no maw.” His sobs occupied the child for several seconds.
“I got took from the orphanage, missus.”
“Oh, Nicky.” Estelle laid one gentle hand against his cheek, only half noticing how dirty her hand was already.
“He’ll belt me for sure.” The child scratched the back of one leg with the heel of the other foot and scrubbed at his eyes again with his fists. “I got lost. It’s dark and I can’t get me breath up there.”
“He will not hurt you. You have my word on it.” Estelle straightened up and crossed the room to the bellpull to summon her maid. “Sit down on the floor, Nicky. I shall see that you have some food inside you, if nothing else. Does he beat you often?”
The child heaved one leftover sob as he sat down cross-legged on the carpet. “No more nor three or four times
