THE PRODIGY.
The two visitors were conducted through a long veranda, paved with a
delicate mosaic of many-coloured tiles, and overhung with blossoming
creepers.
“Coldstream planted every one of these with his own hand,” observed
the doctor, as his companion stopped for a moment to admire a specially
magnificent creeper. “His lady-love always delighted in flowers. She
used, when a child, to stick one into each of my button-holes; and
would have hung daisy-chains round my neck, but that I was impatient
of fetters, even when forged by pretty, plump, dimpled hands.” Dr.
Pinfold’s face always wore a benevolent expression when he thought of
the little godchild who had been dear to the old bachelor, and whose
innocent affection had been his best tie to his fellow-creatures.
The visitors then entered a pleasant apartment, which looked shady and
cool after the glare outside. The white walls were ornamented with the
graceful arabesque designs in painting in which Oriental artists excel.
There were on them also a few choice water-colour drawings, executed
by Mr. Coldstream himself. He had considerable artistic talent, and
had been stimulated to make finished pictures from rough sketches taken
in England, that his bride might have pleasant reminders of home. The
skins of a tiger, a bear, and two leopards, brought down by Oscar’s gun,
were spread as rugs on the matted floor.
Dr. Pinfold looked around for his friends, but the sole occupant of the
apartment was a lad about sixteen or seventeen years of age, who, with
a large book open before him, sat with his chin resting on the palms
of his thick hands. The youth seemed to be so much absorbed in what he
was studying, that he at first hardly noticed the entrance of visitors.
Dr. Pinfold on seeing him uttered an exclamation of astonishment rather
than of pleasure.
“Why, Thud, _you_ here! is it possible?” cried the doctor, moving
forward and holding out his hand.
The lad who was thus addressed rose slowly, lazily, advanced two steps,
and then rather touched than shook the extended hand, almost with the
air of one who grudges the trouble of exchanging common civilities.
“What on earth brought you here?” exclaimed Pinfold.
“Of course one must travel if one wishes to absorb new ideas; science
demands――”
“Oh, never mind science just now,” cried the doctor. “Did you come with
your brother and sister?”
“I came with my sister and her husband,” was the reply. Thud was
glancing at his open book as he spoke, as if he thought time lost in
such commonplace conversation.
“How was it that I did not see you yesterday, Thud, when I went to the
ship? I did not notice you when I was overhauling the luggage.”
“I was not going to overhaul luggage,” said Thud, with a touch of
contempt in his tone. “I got out of the noise and racket as soon as
I could, and took a stroll on the beach to look for conchological
specimens.”
“Just like you――just like you,” muttered the doctor; “always out of the
way when anything useful is to be done.”
“I’m sometimes in the way,” said Thud.
“You never said a truer word in your life, my boy!” cried the doctor
laughing. “You are very frequently _in the way_ of others.”
Thud did not look angry; he was too perfectly satisfied with himself to
be sensitive to satire. To hit the lad was like thumping a bag of wool.
In looking at Thud the chaplain was irresistibly reminded of an owl.
A somewhat beaked nose in the midst of a full round face, half-closed
eyes under rounded brows, a low forehead surmounted by a mop of
hay-coloured hair, with a trick peculiar to Thud of poising his head
a little on one side when any idea of peculiar magnitude weighed on
his brain, made him resemble the bird of Minerva. The large head was
planted, almost without the intervention of neck, on a short, thick
figure, the legs being particularly curtailed in length. Thud was not,
however, a dwarf; and he had a good opinion of his own appearance, as
well as of everything else appertaining to himself.
“Where are Mr. Coldstream and Io?” asked the doctor.
“Don’t know,” was the curt reply; then the young sage condescended to
add, “I s’pose they’ve gone out.”
“You’ll please to find them,” said the doctor a little tartly. “Tell
Coldstream that our chaplain, the Rev. Mark Lawrence, has called
to see him; and let Io know that her old friend is waiting.――Pray,
Mr. Lawrence, take a seat.”
“I’ll send a servant――” began Thud.
“No, sir, you’ll please to go yourself,” said the doctor; “you are more
likely to find the pair, and more able to explain who have come to see
them, than any native could be. Besides, you could not give a message
in any tongue but your own; though I daresay that Io has learned a good
deal of the language during the voyage from England.”
Thud again gave a regretful glance at his book, then slowly and
unwillingly quitted the room. The only notice which he took of the
chaplain as he passed him was shown by an awkward nod of the head.
“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 a knave. 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 Newton were 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.
“This is but a specimen anecdote,” continued the doctor. “Master
Thucydides Thud was always
‘As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And when I speak――let no dog bark.’
And Coldstream has actually brought out this owl to hoot in Moulmein!”