The Minor Dramas. William Dean Howells
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CALIFORNIAN is standing). Go along with you! What do you want?
THE CALIFORNIAN. Aunt Mary.
AUNT MARY. Go away. Aunt Mary, indeed!
MRS. ROBERTS (running toward her, followed by CAMPBELL and MR. ROBERTS). Why, Aunt Mary, it is you! And here’s Willis, and here’s Edward.
AUNT MARY. Nonsense! How did they get aboard?
MRS. ROBERTS. Edward came on at Worcester and Willis at Framingham, to surprise me.
AUNT MARY. And a very silly performance. Let them wait till I’m dressed, and then I’ll talk to them. Send for the porter. [She withdraws her head behind the curtain, and then thrusts it out again.] And who, pray, may this be?
[She indicates THE CALIFORNIAN.]
MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, a friend of ours from California, who’s been so kind to us all night, and who’s going home with us.
AUNT MARY. Another ridiculous surprise, I suppose. But he shall not surprise me. Young man, isn’t your name Sawyer?
THE CALIFORNIAN. Yes, ma’am.
AUNT MARY. Abram?
THE CALIFORNIAN. Abram Sawyer. You’re right there, ma’am.
MRS. ROBERTS. Oh! oh! I knew it! I knew that he must be somebody belonging to us. Oh, thank you, aunty, for thinking—
AUNT MARY. Don’t be absurd, Agnes. Then you’re my—
A VOICE from one of the berths. Lost step-son. Found! found at last!
[THE CALIFORNIAN looks vainly round in an endeavor to identify the speaker, and then turns again to AUNT MARY.]
AUNT MARY. Weren’t your parents from Bath?
THE CALIFORNIAN (eagerly). Both of ’em, ma’am—both of ’em.
THE VOICE. O my prophetic soul, my uncle!
AUNT MARY. Then you’re my old friend Kate Harris’s daughter?
THE CALIFORNIAN. I might be her son, ma’am; but my mother’s name was Susan Wakeman.
AUNT MARY (in sharp disgust). Call the porter, please.
[She withdraws her head and pulls her curtains together; the rest look blankly at one another.]
CAMPBELL. Another failure, and just when we thought we were sure of you. I don’t know what we shall do about you, Mr. Sawyer.
THE VOICE. Adopt him.
CAMPBELL. That’s a good idea. We will adopt you. You shall be our adoptive—
THE VOICE. Baby boy.
ANOTHER VOICE. Wife.
A THIRD VOICE. Brother.
A FOURTH VOICE. Early friend.
A FIFTH VOICE. Kate Harris’s daughter.
CAMPBELL (laying his hand on THE CALIFORNIAN’S shoulder, and breaking into a laugh). Don’t mind them. They don’t mean anything. It’s just their way. You come home with my sister, and spend Christmas, and let us devote the rest of our lives to making your declining years happy.
VOICES. “Good for you, Willis!” “We’ll all come!” “No ceremony!” “Small and early!”
CAMPBELL (looking round). We appear to have fallen in with a party of dry-goods drummers. It makes a gentleman feel like an intruder. [The train stops; he looks out of the window.] We’ve arrived. Come, Agnes; come, Roberts; come, Mr. Sawyer—let’s be going.
[They gather up their several wraps and bags, and move with great dignity toward the door.]
AUNT MARY (putting out her head). Agnes! If you must forget your aunt, at least remember your child.
MRS. ROBERTS (running back in an agony of remorse). Oh, baby, did I forget you?
CAMPBELL. Oh, aunty, did she forget you? [He runs back, and extends his arms to his aunt.] Let me help you down, Aunt Mary.
AUNT MARY. Nonsense, Willis. Send the porter.
CAMPBELL (turning round and confronting THE PORTER). He was here upon instinct. Shall he fetch a step-ladder?
AUNT MARY. He will know what to do. Go away, Willis; go away with that child, Agnes. If I should happen to fall on you—[They retreat; the curtain drops, and her voice is heard behind it addressing THE PORTER.] Give me your hand; now your back; now your knee. So! And very well done. Thanks.
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