The Cradle.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 2, 10 July 1912, Page 52

The Cradle.

By

ANNE WARNER.

V 0 E was sitting at one of the tiny tables in the Ritz, just because 1 f lie had been "over” long enough / to acquire the tea-habit and to be beset with a thirst that only tea Would satisfy as soon as “feef o’clock” Came to time each day. Sometimes he fulfilled his craving in the Bois, or at the Palais, or in one of the many private salons where he was persona grata, but when he was near he liked the Ritz —because—because—oh, because the Ritz is the Ritz, and has an atmosphere apart end individual. The afternoon was fine, and the tables were all full. A constant succession of visitors moved in an I out. and a constant (in another -ett-e of the word) succession of other visitors sat and wat.hed them. I’, amused th:- man already mentioned to watch these watchers—-the

»nes. wa.sse er. o;ne:f >n-:-ted m contemplating : e enj>»> ment of others—the little groups who h iked down their tea between absorbed on-looking—the peopls who came there not to aatisfv any nevi except that of their eurio-iy. There were many such in the room and his eyes roamed uieditat irely over the n all until, havin’ completed the circuit, and e» ompwssed the whole crowd they came buck to the star'ing point and saw that the starting point had altered during their tour. The two regally blonde Frenchwomen who had been there a minute ago were gone, ami in their »te« I sat a diminutive creature with an elderly lady—the one in grev, th- other 13 black. The tiny one was daintily tiny, fiirylike in the extreme. Sim was exquisitely gowned, and her attire was so perfe -t in its a.mp'i. ty and -o devoi I of any species of ornament that an American or English woman won!.l never have given her a se ond glance, while a t ontinenta! would have suspected and lorg- , netted an empress incognito. She hat on a grey hat with little soft silk rosea tucked beneath its brim, a grey jacket

with grey lace (grey lace costs, let m# tell you) imbedded in its yoke and cuffs, a princesse gown of tucks so finely laid as to hair-line the cloth, grey bottines. and a bit of grey silk stocking showed where her foot advanced beneath the table. The man across the . v ,-nb tot

but admire. She was talkh.g sdtb her companion—a conversation devoid of animation. but evidently pleasing and interesting. Only once did she turn her head at all—and then a flash of remembrance shot full in his face—! It was the little girl who married Diels Bentley the autumn before he died—the little girl who came from San Frarr.'iseo all alone to marry him when the doctors said that he could not go to her! Six vears ago—that was!

He was getting up and dragging his chair across towards her. He did not seem to remember the usages of society in that minute—he remembered only the wonderful sweetness and

courage that the wee little thing had shown at that long-ago wedding when she had taken a vow to be a widow at on-e with the vow to be a wife. ‘You remember me?—Davis, you know! I was at your—at Dick’s— —” he stopped short, but her hand was put forth and her eyes (grey, too) were smiling. "Yes. of course. How pleasant to see you here.” There w>s something unutterably quiet yet sincere in her voice. He sat down. "You are staying in I'ari-?" he said. “For a few days, yes; we leave tomorrow night, however.'* ‘‘And I. to morrow noon." "The Riviera?—the Channel train?” ■he asked. > "The Clianpel-train." “Ah!" There was no fluttering interest in her manner—only a sweet cordiality. She did not look at him, bat at her tea up. Ha was full of desire to know of her, nevertheless. "You are travelling!**

**l think I may call 3 that. V.e stay a few weeks in one pla»e and then in another.” “Always?** “I have no home. I was an orphan, you know. 1 can't remember either my father or my mother, and there came iso child to use.” Suddenly, there in the midst of the five o'clock Ritz, her face went down in her hands; across her bowed head th» elderly lady threw a meaning glance at Davis, who was fearfully shocked at the sudden emotion betrayedby one so full of self-control. But the next instant she was smiling through a mist (also grey), and saying: "Oh. we like to roam -about, madame and I. And we amuse ourselves as we go, n'est-ce pas, madame?” The elderly lady smiled. Affection and deep sympathy both were manifested in her face. “And so you go to-morrow." the girl went on a little uncertainly; "if it was not that we go too I should ask you to call: but as it is ” she made a significant gesture. “But I wish that I could come,” said the man hurriedly. "I do wish I could come. Can’t I come to-morrow morning—just for a few minutes?" His tone was very earnest and pleading.

"But 1 am going shopping to-morrow morning.” she said., “and it is somethi: tv I I e-.tnnot put off." "But 1 caii go, too,” he de.lai 1 eagerly. “Haven't you seen how the men go -hopping with the women? Let me go with you to-morrow.” >he looked at him. and he saw a strange sort of conflict in her face, and then she blushed. Anything more hea::stonning than that blu-h was never seen before. “Oh. let me go with you!” he all but begged. It seemed to him that he had never in all - his life wanted permission to do anything so much as he wanted hers to accompany her on that "tour de commission.” She played with her teaspoon a long minute, and then she said. “Very well, come. then. 1 atn at the Hotel da Bade, and I will be readv at half-p. -t nine.” He was exact to the minute on the following morning, and she was too. She came down directly his card went up, and again her gown was grey and as simple as befitted early morning. “This is really very nice of you,” “ said as they went out to the cab, “but I’m afraid you'll be bored —men at home do not interest themselves in these expeditions generally.”

glie smiled. "What are we going io buy, if I may ask?” he said as the cab Tolled away. •We are going io buy a cradle/’ she said. •‘A cradle!” “Yea, a eradle. I have a little friend here in Paris whom the world has made poor, but whom Heaven is making rich,

ami I have promised her a cradle. You see, the world has made me rieh, and Heaven has left me poor, so the best pleasure life gives me is wheit I can balance the load a little for someone else.” Her great eyes turned towarqs him. and something rose oddly in his throat so that he could not possibly •peak to her. "I take a great deal of pleasure in helping people,” she said, ''and madame

is lovely about helping me to help them. Places where I cannot go, she goes, bo we can know every person and know just what they need. I have a bed in ever so manv hospitals, and a long list of dear sick or unhappy people in almost every place we stay. It keepa me from thinking of my own life—it teaches me that sorrow is not mine alone. ’

She paused for a minute, and then went on in a brighter tone, “But the cradle is not exactly charity. Toil see, they ran away—Sophie and her lieutenant—and were married, and the parents declare they will not forgive them—but, of course, they will- They have a cunning apartment, and a bonne and tout eela only poor Sophie feels it is almonst scandalous that she cannot have real lace on every little thing she is making, and sb I have promised that the cradle at least shall be suitable for one whose grandpapas are a baron and a general. ’

He found himself still unable to articulate.

“You won’t mind?” she went on, a shadow of anxiety darkening her voice. “You know you said yesterday that men went shopping often. I’ve seen them day’ after day, and I think it rs very sweet to see. At Madame Jeanne s yesterday I saw a very great man indeed choosing his wife’s hats, and I admired him all the more for it. I like the way they both work together here; the little time that Dick was spared me we never went one single place apart: we used to laugh when he bought cigars with me, and I hat-ping with him.” The cab was crossing the Pont Neuf and beginning its struggle for existence in the Quartier Latin. “I assure you,” he said, “so far front minding, I feel deeply honoured. I—l nt very glad I took tea at the Ritz yesterday.”

She gave him a glance so devoid of anything but gratitude that an echo of the swallowed choke came back—and just then the cab stopped. They alighted.

It was a big and brilliant store, and the windows were full of cradles containing happy waxen babies. They went in.

Instantly a clerk was before them, smiling, bowing, deeply concerned foi their welfare.

“A cradle —a ‘completely furnished* cradle-.”

“Ah, on the second floor—al!—everything would be found there. Monsieur would see, madame would view—a moment till the lift descends! Voila! Take care of the crack in entering! Cradles—furnishing—second floor 1” The elevator took them up, and as they quitted it he had to notice the lovely, heightened interest in her face. She looked up and down tire vista of little beds, and said softly, “Just to think that a baby’ will eosne to claim every one of them ’* But another elerk was before them —• another of those perfect beings whom all the shopping publie of the wide world may well envy Paris—and a very few other cities.

“A cradle! at about what price? This way, 1 beg.”

They went around to the other side and there stood twenty in a row, all different, each exquisite, tome in enamel, some in earved wood, some in gilt or in silver, some made of the great silken ropes interwoven, some made of twisted bamboo.

He could only watch her face as she moved up and down the line, touching them with her gloved finger tips—the touch as tender as the expression on her face.

The clerk was not voluble; he was silent; he saw the sale was made beforehand. He answered questions, and sometimes he looked at Davis. Davis hardly knew what to do with the look; he felt it would be thieving to accept, and yet it was too overwhelmingly delightful to refuse.

She stopped at last before one that outshone all the rest. Two great storks carved in dark wood held, hung between them, a basket of woven silver.

“Do you think it is too rich?” she asked Davis with an irresistible appeal in her tone and eyes. The clerk did not even trouble to raise his eyes—he thought he knew-* (and he did). “No, no, indeed!” earns the answer. She flashed one look of radiant joy Over the two men and the eradle.

•And now the furnishings,” ehe said breathlessly.

As they moved away she slipped her iMirte-iuonnaie inti» her qompanioii's hand. "You can pay it all." she whiipered. He nodded.' . They sat down before a great table upon which were displayed sample* of blankets, coverlets, wee tucked pillowslips, lace-edged spreads, and so forth. "You're not bored?” she said to him, her eyes and cheeks and lips overspread with the wonderful, tender charm. "Yow are sure?” ‘•Bored!” he ejaculated. And then he was silent and watched her. The clerk brought out great rolls of carefully corded-up treasures, and she bent above them and revelled in them and chose, from among them. “Do you think I am foolish?" she asked him just once when a little down quilt with a wreath of hand-embroidered roses was under consideration. “I think you are an angel!” He answered. She laughed a little soft laugh and took the quilt. Finally it was all over. She gave the address: "Mme. Leon de Courville. Ill,is Passage tie la Visitation,” and he drew out his nurse. "Oh. that is the wrong purse,” she reminded him quickly. “Sh —later," he said with authority. They brought him the change from his two-thousand-franc notes, and then the clerk ushered them back to the elevator and wished them au revoir. t\ hen they reached the door l»elow it was raining; the cabman had raised the hood, and stood ready to tuck them in behind its apron. "I have been very happy.” she said when they were moving again; “it was

kind of you to be so patient.” "But I was happy, too,” he declared. "\\ hat a strange thing a woman is,” she went on: "we are no better than

children, after all. Do you know, my pleasure this morning was hundredfolded by the knowledge that that clerk that man that. 1 shall never see again

—thought 1 was buying for myself. To kiion that he thought I was one of tiio-e heaveu-bh—ed women that really !—to .tjiink tiiat he was .--ur,' <..i it—oh!" her.faee suddenly went <i«wii in her ii a!l ,l< again.-, just a-'it had tne atteriHHHi at the. Ritz.' "God heli, me! .'he sobbed, amt then was instantaneously brave again. “But we niU't settle our accounts,” site said, putting down emotion with • finance, the latter being death to sentiment of any sort the world over. ‘ How much was it all?” ! He battled fiercely with that horrible lump that had risen again at the sight of her face in her hands. "It was nothing,” he said. "Nothing!” ".Listen!” He put his hands on Iters to gain emphasis. "Iristen!—it’s been a—a wonderful morning for me too. I'm rich, too—let me do some good— I pray you by—by all that is holy—let me give tlie cradle. I ask you with—with my soul.” She was still tor a minute. Then she looked at him. "Are you really rich?” she asked. "Very," lie said tersely. ■She was silent for another minuteThen: *T shall tell .Sophie,” she said .simply. T can give her something else myself.” They came to the hotel a little later. "And you leave to-night for Dresden?” he asked as he accompanied her within. “Yes. and you go to I'alais?" she replied. They touched hands. ‘‘Good-bye,” she said gently. "Good-bye.” He reached bis hotel in good time to make the Gare du Nord and the Channel-train, but lie did neither. He went to his room, and. thrfisving himself across a large easy-chair, he thought. And thought. He was a man, and yet he forgot so much. Hy never forgot before or after, tout he forgot it that day. He sat still thinking until nearly four o'clock, and then he sprang up and rang furiously. "L’lndicateur,” he -aid to The boy who came. "Here”—he tossed him a coin—"ask in the office.if, l can get a compartment on to-night's German express—the .one that goes to Tell theni to send —to telegraph—it's—it's vital.”