Mr. Hardie did not deign to answer his son, who indeed had spoken at him, and not to him.
As for poor Maxley, he was in sad and sober earnest, and could not relish nor even take in Alfred's irony. He lifted his head and looked Mr. Hardie in the face.
“You be a hard man,” said he, trembling with emotion. “You robbed me and my missus of our all; you ha' broke her heart, and turned my head, and if I was to come and kill you, 'twould only be clearing scores. 'Stead of that, I comes to you like a lamb, and says give me your name on a bit of paper, and put me out of harm's way. 'No,' says you, 'go to the workhouse!' Be you in the workhouse—you that owes me nine hundred pounds and my dead missus?” With this he went into a rage, took a packet out of his pocket, and flung L. 900 of Mr. Hardie's paper at Mr. Hardie's head before any one could stop him.
But Alfred saw his game, stepped forward, and caught it with one hand, and with the dexterity of a wicket-keeper, within a foot of his father's nose. “How's that, Umpire?” said he: then, a little sternly, “Don't do that again, Mr. Maxley, or I shall have to give you a hiding—to keep up appearances.” He then put the notes in his pocket, and said quietly, “I shall give you your money for these before the year ends.”
“You won't be quite so mad as that, I hope,” remonstrated his father. But he made no reply: they very seldom answered one another now.
“Oh,” said Dr. Wycherley, inspecting him like a human curiosity, “nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae.”
“Nec parvum sine mixtura stultitiae,” retorted Alfred in a moment and met his offensive gaze with a point-blank look of supercilious disdain.
Then having shut him up, he turned to Osmond: “Come,” said he, “prescribe for this poor fellow, who asks for a hospital, so Routine gives him a workhouse. Come, you know there is no limit to your skill and good nature: you cured Spot of the worms, cure poor old Maxley of his snakes: oblige me.”
“That I will, Mr. Alfred,” said Osmond heartily: and wrote a prescription on a leaf of his memorandum-book, remarking that though a simple purgative, it had made short work of a great many serpents and dragons, and not a few spectres and hobgoblins into the bargain.
The young gentleman thanked him graciously, and said kindly to Maxley, “Get that made up—here's a guinea—and I'll send somebody to see how you are to-morrow.”