"Good-bye. Say it to the others for me." "Good-bye--good luck to you." ... And he was gone--walking past the window in a top-hat. § 14. It would be mere politeness to describe as a "taking" Reuben's condition when he heard Richard had gone. He was in a stamping, bellowing, bloodshot rage. He sent for various members of his family, questioned them, stormed at them, sent them away, then sent for them again. He boxed Caro's ears because she cried--hitherto he had kept his hands off the girls. As for Tilly, he would have liked to have whipped her--he felt sure that somehow it was all her doing--but the more furious he grew, the more he felt himself abashed by her manner, at once so soft and so determined, and he dared do no more than throw his boots at her. After a night of cursings and trampings in his room, he took the fermenting dregs of his wrath to Cheat Land. It was queer that he should go for sympathy to Alice Jury, who was chief in the enemy's camp. But though he knew she would not take his part, she would not be like the others, leering and cackling. She would give him something vital, even if it was only a vital opposition. That was all the difference between her and everyone else--she opposed him not because she was flabby or uninterested or enterpriseless, but because she really hated what he strove for. She was his one strong candid enemy, so he went to her as his only friend. She was shocked at his white twitching face and bloodshot eyes; for the first time since she had known him, Reuben came to her bereft of that triumphant manhood which had made him so splendid to watch in his struggles. "The hound!" he cried, striking his fists together, "the miserable, cowardy hound!--gone and left me--gone to be a gentleman, the lousy pig. Oh, Lard, I wish as I had him in these hands o' mine!--I'd mäake a gentleman of him!" Alice, as he expected, had caustic for him rather than balm. "Once again," she said slowly, "I ask you--is it worth while?" "Wot's worth while?" "You know. I asked you that question the first or second time I saw you. No one had ever asked it you before, and you would have liked to beat me." "I shud like to beat you now--talking of wot you know naun about." "I daresay--but I'm not your son or your daughter or your wife----" "I never beat my wife." "Chivalrous, humane man!--well, anyhow I'm not anyone you can beat, so I dare ask--is it worth while?" "And I ask wot d'you mean by 'worth while'?" "You know that it's Boarzell and your farm which have lost you your boys." "I know nothing of the sort." "Well, would Robert have stolen money, or Albert disgraced your name, to get free, if you and your farm hadn't made them slaves? If you hadn't been a heartless slave-driver would George have died the other night alone on the Moor?--or would Richard have taken advantage of a neighbour's charity to escape from you? Don't you see that your ambition has driven you to make slaves of your children?"