10
Comfortably engrossed in his newspaper, he was vaguely aware of Aunt Sarah somewhere at his back, engaged in a household task known as "wiping." This consisted in running a dustcloth over certain surfaces (when they were equal to or lower than her own height) and flicking it at others (when they were higher). Presently he heard her come to a halt and cluck her tongue enticingly, and surmised by that she must have at last reached the point at which Julia's canary, Dicky Bird, hung suspended in its gilt cage from a bracket protruding close beside the window.
"How my pretty ?" she wheedled. "Hunh? Tell Aunt Sarah. How my pretty bird?"
There was a feeble monosyllabic twit from the bird, no more.
"You can do better than that. Come on now, perk up. Lemme hear you sing."
There was a second faltering twit, little better than a squeak.
The old woman gingerly thrust her finger through, apparently with the idea of gently stroking its tiny feathers.
As though that slight impetus were all that were needed, the little yellow tenant promptly fell to the floor of the cage. He huddled there inert, head down, apparently unable to regain the perch he had just lost. He blinked repeatedly, otherwise gave no sign of life.
Aunt Sarah became vociferously alarmed. "Mr. Lou!" she brayed. "Come here, sir! Something the matter with Miss Julia's little old bird. See you can find out what ails her."
Durand, who had been watching her over his shoulder for several minutes past, promptly discarded his newspaper, got up and went over.
By the time he had reached her, Aunt Sarah had already opened the cage wicket, reached a hand in with elephantine caution, and brought the bird out. It made no attempt to flutter, lay there almost inanimately.
They both bent their heads over it, with an intentness that, unintentionally, had a touch of the ludicrous to it.
"Why, it starving. Why, 'pears like it ain't had nothing to eat in days. Nothing left of it under its feathers at all. Feel here. Look at that. Seed dish plumb empty. No water neither."
It continued to blink up at them, apparently clinging to its life by a thread.
"Come to think of it, I ain't heard it singing in two, three days now. Not singing right, anyhow."
Durant, reminded by her remark, now recalled that he hadn't either.
"Miss Julia's going to have a fit," the old lady predicted, with an ominous headshake.
"But who's been feeding it, you or she?"
She gave him a look of blank bewilderment. "Why, I--I 'spected she was. She never said nothing to me. She never told me to. It b'long to her, I thought maybe she don't want nobody but herself to feed it."
"She must have thought you were," he frowned, puzzled. "But funny she didn't ask if you were. I'll hold it in my hand. Go get it some water."
They had it back in the cage, somewhat revived, and were still busy watching it, when Julia came into the room, the long-winded toilette that had been occupying her, apparently at last concluded.
She came toward him, tilted up her face, and kissed him dutifully. "I'm going shopping, Lou dear. Can you spare me for an hour or so?" Then without waiting for the permission, she went on toward the op.. posite door.
"Oh, by the way, Julia--" he had to call after her, to halt her.
She stopped and turned, sweetly patient. "Yes, dear ?"
"We found Dicky Bird nearly dead just now, Aunt Sarah and I."
He thought that would bring her back toward the cage at least, if only for a brief glance. She remained where she was, apparently begrudging the delay, though brooking it for his sake.
"He going to be all right, honey," Aunt Sarah quickly interjected. "They ain't nothing, man or beast or bird, Aunt Sarah can't nurse back to health. You just watch, he going to be all right."
"Is he ?" she said somewhat shortly. There was almost a quirk of annoyance expressed in the way she said it, but that of course, he told himself, was wholly imaginary on his part.
She began to mould her glove to her hand with an air of hauteur. Unnoticeably the subject had changed. "I do hope I don't have a hard time finding a carriage. Always, just when you want them, there's not one to be had--"
Aunt Sarah, among other harmless idiosyncrasies, had a habit of being behindhand in changing subjects, of dwelling on a subject, once current, for several minutes after everyone else had quitted it.
"He be singing again just as good as ever in a day or two, honey."
Julia's eyes gave a flick of impatience. "Sometimes that singing of his can be too much of a good thing," she said tartly. "It's been a blessed relief to--" She moistened her lips correctively, turned her attention to Durand again. "There's a hat I saw in Ottley's window I simply must have. I hope somebody hasn't already taken it away from there. May I?"
He glowed at this flattering deference of seeking his permission. "Of course! Have it by all means, bless your heart."
She gave a gay little flounce toward the door, swept it open. "Ta ta, lovey mine." She blew him a kiss, up the tilted flat of her hand and over the top of it, from the open doorway.
The door closed, and the room dimmed again somewhat.
Aunt Sarah was still standing beside the cage. "I sure enough 'spected she'd come over and take a look at him," she said perplexedly. "Reckon she ain't so fond of him no more."
"She must be. She brought him all the way down from St. Louis with her," Durand answered inattentively, eyes buried in his newspaper once more.
"Maybe she done change, don't care 'bout him no more."
This monologue was for her own benefit, however, not her employer's. He just happened to be there to overhear it.
She left the room.
A moment passed. Several, in fact. Durand's attention remained focused on the printed sheet before him.
Then suddenly he stopped reading.
His eyes left the paper abruptly, stared over its top.
Not at anything in particular, just in abstract thought.
11
Her trunk was recalled to his mind one day by the very act of his own sitting on it. It was no longer recognizable at sight for a trunk, it had a gaily printed slip cover over it to disguise it, and stood there over against the wall.
It was a Sunday, and though they did not go to church, they never failed, in common with all other good citizens, to dress up in their Sunday finest and take their Sunday morning promenade; to see and be seen, to bow and nod and perhaps exchange a few amiable words with this one and that of their acquaintances in passing. It was an established custom, the Sunday morning promenade, in all the cities of the land.
He was waiting for her to be ready, and he had sat down upon this nondescript surface without looking to see what it was, satisfied merely that it was level and firm enough to take him.
She was slowed, at the last moment, by difficulties.
"I wore this last week, remember? They'll see it again."
She discarded it.
"And this--I don't know about this--" She curled her lip slightly. "I'm not very taken with it."
She discarded it as well.
"That looks attractive," he offered cheerfully, pointing at random.
She shrugged off his ignorance. "But this is a weekday dress, not a Sunday one."
He wondered privately, and with a soundless little chuckle, how one told the first from the second, but refrained from asking her.
She sat down now, still further delaying their Start. "I don't know what I'll do. I haven't a thing fit to be seen in." This, taken in conjunction with the fact that the room was already littered with dresses, struck him as so funny that he could no longer control himself, but burst out laughing, and as he did so, swung his arm down against the surface he was sitting on, in a clap of emphasis. He felt, through the covering, the unmistakable shape of a pear-shaped metal trunk lock. And at that moment, he first realized it was her trunk he was sitting upon. The one she had brought from St. Louis. She had never, it suddenly struck him as well, opened it since her arrival.