Alice was bringing to bear upon her obdurate husband the battery of all her cajoleries, when, to her surprise, he surrendered at once.
“Yes,” said he, “since our child is named in his honor, I will tell you the story of Theodoric Poythress.”
In the next chapter that story will be found; though not in as colloquial a form as that in which Charley actually told it, and with most of Alice’s interruptions omitted.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
“Theodoric was the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Poythress. He was born on the 15th day of April, 1832, I on the 2d of the preceding March; so that I was his senior by six weeks. Our intimacy began when we were not more than six years old. Mr. Poythress had a tutor for Theodoric at that period, by whom half a dozen of the neighbors’ sons were taught, myself among the number. I was put across the River every morning; but there was an understanding between my mother and Mrs. Poythress that whenever the weather grew threatening, I was to be allowed to spend the night with Theodoric. During the winter and early spring there was hardly a week that I did not pass at least one night with him; he, in turn, spending Friday night and Saturday with me. Ah, how happy we were! When two congenial boys are thrown together in that way, they get about as much out of life as is to be gotten at any other age. I can recall but one quarrel that we ever had; and that was when I said, one day, that my mother was, beyond doubt, the best woman in the world. We compromised the matter, in the end, by reciprocal admissions that the mother of each was best to him.
“I think few boys were ever better friends than we; and for the reason, no doubt, that we differed so. Even as a boy I had an indolent, easy-going way of taking things as they came. My anger, too, was hard to arouse, and as easy to appease; while his was sudden and fierce, and, I am sorry to add, implacable. And this is true generally, notwithstanding the proverb. It may be that people who give way to little gusts of temper soon forget their wrath; but my observation has taught me that unappeasable, undying resentment is always found associated with readiness to take offence. This, at any rate, was Theodoric’s disposition.”
“I trust,” said Alice, “that our boy will not resemble him in that respect.”
“I hope not. But that was the only serious defect in his character; in my partial eyes, at least. He was generous, chivalrous, truth itself, absolutely unselfish, and, withal, paradoxical as it may appear, as tender-hearted as a girl. I remember a little incident which shows this. One day, as we school-boys were racing about the lawn during recess, a wretched-looking man walked up to us and asked for food. He was the first beggar we had ever seen, and two or three of us ran into the kitchen and returned with enough for five men. While he ate, the drunken old humbug,—for such he proved to be,—taking advantage of our simplicity, wrought powerfully on our sympathies by recounting the tale of his woes. He had not tasted food for two days.
“‘Why did you not buy something to eat?’ asked Theodoric, with quivering lip.
“‘I hadn’t any money.’