“That most unmitigated owl!” exclaimed the doctor,throwing himself into the most luxurious lounging-chair in the room. “What could have induced Oscar Coldstream to hamper himself with such an incubus as that? It has been one of his magnanimous acts of self-denial. Coldstream has wished to relieve his bride’s widowed mother of the burden of supporting, the worry of trying to manage a conceited, lazy fellow, who is ready enough to eat, and then spout scientific nonsense, but who has never earned a penny in his life, and is never likely to earn one. I see now why poor Coldstream looks so grave and gloomy. I guess that Sindbad the sailor did not feel very lively with the old man of the sea on his back, and Thud would be an even more intolerable burden to any sensible man. Coldstream had, I’ll be bound, flared up at some piece of arrogant folly, and—for he has pepper and mustard in him—given his precious brother-in-law a good set down, or maybe a well-earned box on the ear; then Oscar had seen Io look vexed, and had reproached himself for being hard on the owl, and had ended by begging his pardon! Coldstream is absurdly conscientious. I can tell you a curious anecdote which shows the nature of the man. Some time last year one of his assistants made a very provoking blunder in a shipping account. Coldstream thought it something worse than a blunder, and taxed the fellow, in the presence of some half a dozen of us, with cooking the accounts. It appeared afterwards, on examination, that the man had been only a fool, not aknave. Would you believe it? Coldstream collected together every individual who had heard his hasty accusation, and in the presence of all made a public apology to his own assistant! I call such conduct a little absurd.”
“Honourable—generous!” was the comment of the young chaplain. “I feel impatient to be introduced to your friend.”
“You’ll find Coldstream a decided improvement on Thud,” observed Dr. Pinfold smiling.
“How came the lad by such an uncommon name?” asked Lawrence.
“His real name is Thucydides Thorn,” replied Pinfold. “His father, my old school-fellow, was a somewhat eccentric fellow, like his boy. However, he resembled Thud only in this, that he wanted to do everything in a different way from every one else. Beaten paths were Tom Thorn’s aversion; he would rather flounder through a bog than walk along a highway. There is a little smack of vanity in this, I take it, Mr. Lawrence; but Tom Thorn was really a clever man. Happily he married a sensible sort of woman, who minded his house, and was not put out if her husband sat up all night star-gazing, or forgot his dinner when studying a Greek poem. Your genius should never marry a genius; one partner in the matrimonial firm should serve as ballast, if the other be all inflated sail.”
Pinfold paused, and the chaplain’s faint smile expressed assent. Then the doctor went on with his story.
“The first child born was a girl. Tom Thorn did not think much of the little creature who came when he was translating Euripides and disturbed him by her squalling: she was called Jane, after her mother. The father was a bit disappointed that the little brat was not a boy. Then came a second girl—another disappointment; but she turned out to be a little beauty, so Thorn consoled himself by giving her the classic name of Io. I thought the name absurd, till some twenty months afterwards I heard it from the cherry lips of the little prattler who bore it. Io always made two distinct syllables of the two letters, leaning on the first; and I found that the word was charming. One day—she was just four years old, and wearing her pink birthday sash—Io came running to me with the grand news that some one, she thought perhaps an angel, had brought her a baby brother. The little pet’s eyes sparkled with joy; she danced about the room with delight: she could not know that poor Thud was hardly the gift that an angel would be likely to bring. This boy, whom Thorn expected to turn out a genius, was christened Thucydides, this being a name which ‘nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.’ It was soon shortened to Thud. So Thud, theoretical Thud, the boy will be to the end of his days.”
“I suppose, from what I have seen and heard of the lad, that it was rather the father than the mother who conducted his education,” observed Mr. Lawrence.
“Education!” repeated the doctor, with a very significant compression of his full lips and a turning down of the corners of his mouth. “Thud was fed on polysyllables instead of pap, caught the trick of his father’s dogmatic manner, and lisped nonsense with the air of a Solon. Of course the boy was too clever to be much troubled with a Primer; I think his found its way into the fire. When Thud could neither read nor write he was watching his father’s scientific experiments; for with Thorn, who was an erratic genius, classics had given way to science, and his whole mind was full of theories about electric currents. I remember his boy at dinner one day (we were never free from his presence and prating at meals), when the pudding had been somewhat burnt in the oven. Master Thud (he still wore a bib) pushed away his plate, and gave out his authoritative dictum, ‘Pudding ought to be cooked by electricity.’ Thorn looked with parental pride on his hopeful prodigy. ‘Depend upon it, Pinfold,’ he said to me across the table, ‘that boy will make his mark.’ I could not help making the sarcastic observation, ‘Folk who make their mark are those who don’t know how to write.’ Then turning towards the little prig—‘What do you know about electricity?’ I asked. ‘I knows all about the electric—’ The boy stopped; the ‘currents’ would not come to the juvenile memory. But Thud never lost his self-assurance. ‘I knows all about the electric gooseberries’ came out, as if all the wisdom of a Newtonwere crammed into that heavy head. We all burst out laughing, Thud laughing the loudest of all. I believe that he thought that he had said a remarkably clever thing. Ha! ha! ha!”
“I daresay that electric gooseberries became proverbial in the family,” observed the chaplain smiling.