The Minor Dramas. William Dean Howells
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thought you were my baby.
THE CALIFORNIAN. Perhaps I am, ma’am; I’ve lost so much sleep I could cry, anyway. Do I look like your baby?
MRS. ROBERTS. No, no, you don’t. [In distress that overcomes her mortification.] Oh, where is my baby? I left him all uncovered, and he’ll take his death of cold, even if he doesn’t roll out. Oh, Edward, Edward, help me to find baby!
MR. ROBERTS (bustling aimlessly about). Yes, yes; certainly, my dear. But don’t be alarmed; we shall find him.
THE CALIFORNIAN (getting out in his stocking feet). We shall find him, ma’am, if we have to search every berth in this car. Don’t you take on. That baby’s going to be found if he’s aboard the train, now, you bet! [He looks about and then tears open the curtains of a berth at random.] That your baby, ma’am?
MRS. ROBERTS (flying upon the infant thus exposed). Oh, baby, baby, baby!! I thought I had lost you. Um! um! um!
[She clasps him in her arms, and covers his face and neck with kisses.]
THE CALIFORNIAN (as he gets back into his berth, sotto voce). I wish I had been her baby.
MRS. ROBERTS (returning with her husband to his seat, and bringing the baby with her). There! Did you ever see such a sleeper, Edward? [In her ecstasy she abandons all control of her voice, and joyfully exclaims.] He has slept all through this excitement, without a wink.
A solemn Voice from one of the berths. I envy him.
[A laugh follows, in which all the passengers join.]
MRS. ROBERTS (in a hoarse whisper, breaking a little with laughter). Oh, my goodness! there I went again. But how funny! I assure you, Edward, that if their remarks had not been about me, I could have really quite enjoyed some of them. I wish there had been somebody here to take them down. And I hope I shall see some of the speakers in the morning before—Edward, I’ve got an idea!
MR. ROBERTS (endeavoring to teach his wife by example to lower her voice, which has risen again). What—what is it, my dear?
MRS. ROBERTS. Why, don’t you see? How perfectly ridiculous it was of me not to think of it before! though I did think of it once, and hadn’t the courage to insist upon it. But of course it is; and it accounts for his being so polite and kind to me through all, and it’s the only thing that can. Yes, yes, it must be.
MR. ROBERTS (mystified). What?
MRS. ROBERTS. Willis.
MR. ROBERTS. Who?
MRS. ROBERTS. This Californian.
MR. ROBERTS. Oh!
MRS. ROBERTS. No stranger could have been so patient and—and—attentive; and I know that he recognized me from the first, and he’s just kept it up for a joke, so as to surprise us and have a good laugh at us when we get to Boston. Of course it’s Willis.
MR. ROBERTS (doubtfully). Do you think so, my dear?
MRS. ROBERTS. I know it. Didn’t you notice how he looked at your card? And I want you to go at once and speak to him, and turn the tables on him.
MR. ROBERTS. I—I’d rather not, my dear.
MRS. ROBERTS. Why, Edward, what can you mean?
MR. ROBERTS. He’s very violent. Suppose it shouldn’t be Willis?
MRS. ROBERTS. Nonsense! It is Willis. Come, let’s both go and just tax him with it. He can’t deny it, after all he’s done for me. [She pulls her reluctant husband toward THE CALIFORNIAN’S berth, and they each draw a curtain.] Willis!
THE CALIFORNIAN (with plaintive endurance). Well, ma’am?
MRS. ROBERTS (triumphantly). There! I knew it was you all along. How could you play such a joke on me?
THE CALIFORNIAN. I didn’t know there’d been any joke; but I suppose there must have been, if you say so. Who am I now, ma’am—your husband, or your baby, or your husband’s wife, or—
MRS. ROBERTS. How funny you are! You know you’re Willis Campbell, my only brother. Now don’t try to keep it up any longer, Willis.
[Voices from various berths. “Give us a rest, Willis!” “Joke’s too thin, Willis!” “You’re played out, Willis!” “Own up, old fellow—own up!”]
THE CALIFORNIAN (issuing from his berth, and walking up and down the aisle, as before, till quiet is restored). I haven’t got any sister, and my name ain’t Willis, and it ain’t Campbell. I’m very sorry, because I’d like to oblige you any way I could.
MRS. ROBERTS (in deep mortification). It’s I who ought to apologize, and I do most humbly. I don’t know what to say; but when I got to thinking about it, and how kind you had been to me, and how sweet you had been under all my—interruptions, I felt perfectly sure that you couldn’t be a mere stranger, and then the idea struck me that you must be my brother in disguise; and I was so certain of it that I couldn’t help just letting you know that we’d found you out, and—
MR. ROBERTS (offering a belated and feeble moral support). Yes.
MRS. ROBERTS (promptly turning upon him). And you ought to have kept me from making such a simpleton of myself, Edward.
THE CALIFORNIAN (soothingly). Well, ma’am, that ain’t always so easy. A man may mean well, and yet not be able to carry out his intentions. But it’s all right. And I reckon we’d better try to quiet down again, and get what rest we can.
MRS. ROBERTS. Why, yes, certainly; and I will try—oh, I will try not to disturb you again. And if there’s anything we can do in reparation after we reach Boston, we shall be so glad to do it!
[They bow themselves away, and return to their seat, while THE CALIFORNIAN re-enters his berth.]
III.
The train stops at Framingham, and THE PORTER comes in with a passenger whom he shows to the seat opposite MR. and MRS. ROBERTS.
THE PORTER. You can sit here, sah. We’ll be in in about an hour now. Hang up your bag for you, sah?
THE PASSENGER. No, leave it on the seat here.
[THE PORTER goes out, and the ROBERTSES maintain a dejected silence. The bottom of the bag, thrown carelessly on the seat, is toward the ROBERTSES, who regard it listlessly.]
MRS. ROBERTS (suddenly clutching her husband’s arm, and hissing in his ear). See! [She points to the white lettering on the bag, where the name “Willis Campbell, San Francisco,” is distinctly legible.] But it can’t be; it must be some other Campbell. I can’t risk it.
MR. ROBERTS. But there’s the name. It would be very strange if there were two people from San Francisco of exactly the same name. I will speak.
MRS. ROBERTS (as wildly as one can in whisper). No, no, I can’t let you. We’ve made ourselves the laughing-stock of the whole car already with our mistakes, and I can’t go on. I would rather perish than ask him. You don’t suppose it could be? No, it couldn’t. There may be twenty Willis Campbells in San Francisco, and there probably are. Do you think he looks like me! He has a straight nose; but you can’t tell anything about the lower part of his face, the beard covers it so; and I can’t make out the color of his eyes by this light. But of course it’s all nonsense. Still if it should be! It would be very stupid of us to ride all the way from Framingham to Boston with that name staring one in the eyes. I wish he would turn it away. If it really turned out to be Willis, he would think we were awfully stiff and cold. But I can’t help it; I can’t go attacking every stranger I see, and accusing him of being my brother. No, no, I can’t, and I won’t, and that’s all about it. [She leans forward and addresses the stranger with sudden sweetness.] Excuse me, sir, but I am very much interested by the name on your bag. Not that I think you are even acquainted with him, and there are probably a great many of them there; but your coming from the