“Thanks,” I answered, briefly.
“I heard about it,” he whispered. “Ase Peters said the Grand Panjandrum was cranky as a shark with the toothache all day yesterday. You must tell me the yarn when we get together. I missed you when I called just now, but I'll be down again pretty soon. You won't lose nothin' by this. So long.”
As I came down the bank steps Sim Eldredge called across the road.
“Good-by, Ros,” he shouted. “Come in again next time you're up street.”
In all my period of residence in Denboro I had never before been treated like this. People had never before gone out of their way to shake hands with me. No one had considered it worth while to ask favors of me. Sim and Alvin were not to be taken seriously, of course, and both were looking after their own pocketbooks, but their actions were straws proving the wind to be blowing in my direction. I thought, and smiled scornfully, that I, all at once, seemed to have become a person of some importance.
But my scorn was not entirely sincere. There was a certain gratification in the thought. I might pretend—I had pretended—that Denboro opinion, good or bad, was a matter of complete indifference to me. I had assumed myself a philosopher, to whom, in the consciousness of right, such trifles were of no consequence. But, philosophy or not, the fact remained that I was pleased. People might dislike me—as that lofty Colton girl and her father disliked me, though they could dislike me no more than I did them—but I could compel them to respect me. They already must think of me as a man. And so on—as I walked home through the wet grass. It was all as foolish and childish and ridiculous as it well could be. I deserved what was coming to me—and I got it.
For, as I came down the Lane, I met Oscar, the chauffeur, and a companion, whom I judged to be a fellow servant—the coachman, I learned afterwards—walking in the direction of the village. The rain had ceased, but they wore natty raincoats and caps and had the city air of smartness which I recognized and envied, even in them. The footpath was narrow, but they apparently had no intention of stepping to one side, so I made way for them. They whispered together as they approached and looked at me curiously as we passed. A few steps further on I heard them both burst out laughing. I caught the words, from Oscar, “fool Rube” and “the old man'll make him look—” I heard no more, but as I turned into the grove I saw them both looking after me with broad grins on their faces.
Somebody has said that there is nothing harder to bear than the contempt and ridicule of servants. For one thing, you cannot resent it without a loss of dignity, and, for another, you may be perfectly sure that theirs is but the reflection of their employers' frame of mind. This encounter shook my self-satisfaction more than a little. It angered me, but it did more than that; it brought back the feeling I had when I left the Colton library, that my defiance was not, after all, taken seriously. That I was regarded by Colton as just what Oscar had termed me, a “fool Rube.” When George Taylor told me of the great man's questions concerning my foolishness, I accepted the question as a tribute to my independence. Now I was not so sure.
Dorinda met me at the door.
“You've had two callers,” she said.