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, Ilearned 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, Iaccepted 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.
"So? Who were they?"
"One of 'em was Cap'n Jed.He drove down just after you left.He come to see you about that land, I cal'late.""Oh, yes.I remember he told me he missed me this morning.So he came here?""Um-hm.Him and me had a little talk.He seemed to know consider'ble about your rumpus with Mr.Colton.""How did he know?"
"He wouldn't say, but I wouldn't wonder if he got a lot from Ase Peters.Ase and he are pretty thick; he's got a mortgage on Ase's house, you know.And Ase, bein' as he's doin' the carpenterin'
over to Colton's, hears a lot from the servants, I s'pose likely.
Leastways, if they don't tell all their bosses' affairs they're a new breed of hired help, that's all I've got to say.Cap'n Jed says Mr.Colton cal'lates you're a fool.""Yes.So I've heard.What did the Captain say to that?""Seemed to think 'twas a pretty good joke.He said he didn't care how big a fool you was so long's you was feeble-minded on the right side."So there it was again.My imagined importance in the eyes of the townspeople simmered down to about that.I was an imbecile, but they must pretend to believe me something else because I owned something they wanted.Well, I still owned it.
"Of course," continued Dorinda, "I didn't tell him you was figgerin' not to sell the land at all.If I had, I s'pose he'd have thought--"She stopped short.
"You suppose what?" I asked.
"Oh, nothin'."
She had said enough.I could guess the rest.I walked to the window and stood, looking out.The clouds were breaking and, as Istood there, a ray of sunlight streamed through a rift and struck the bay just at the spot where the dingy had grounded.The shallow water above the flat flashed into fire.I am not superstitious, as a general thing, but the sight comforted me.It seemed like an omen.There was the one bright spot in the outlook.There, at least, I had not behaved like a "fool Rube." There I had compelled respect and been taken seriously.
Dorinda spoke again.
"You ain't asked who your other caller was," she observed.
"Was there another?"
"Um-hm.I told you there was two.After Cap'n Jed left that chauffeur feller from the big house come here.He fetched a note for you.Here 'tis."I took the note.It was addressed to me in a man's handwriting, not that of "Big Jim" Colton.I opened the envelope and read:
Roscoe Paine.
Sir: The enclosed is in payment for your work.No receipt is necessary.
Yours truly, B.VICTOR CARVER.
The "enclosed" was a five-dollar bill.
I stood staring at the note.Then I began to laugh.
"What's the joke?" asked Dorinda, who had not taken her eyes from my face.
"This," said I, handing her the money.She looked at it in astonishment.
"Um-hm," she said, drily."Well, I--well, a five-dollar bill may be a joke to you, but _I_ ain't familiar enough with one to laugh at it.You don't laugh as if 'twas awful funny, either.Who's the joke on?""It's on me, just now.
"Um-hm.I'd be willin' to be joked ten times a day, at that price.
And I'd undertake to laugh heartier than you're doin', too.What's it for? the money, I mean.""It's for some 'work' I did yesterday."
She was more astonished than ever.
"Work! You?" she exclaimed.
"Yes.But don't worry; I shan't do it again.""Land! THAT wouldn't worry me.What sort of work was it?""Oh, I--I picked up something adrift in the bay.""Um-hm.I see.Somethin' belongin' to the Coltons, I s'pose likely.Why won't you do it again? Ain't they paid you enough?"Again I laughed."They have paid me too much," I said, bitterly.
"What I picked up wasn't worth the money."
