And yet, how was it that she was now and then conscious
of a certain dim background of relief in the forced
separation from Philip? Surely it was only because
the sense of a deliverance from concealment was welcome
at any cost.
The Hard-Won Triumph
Three weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest
moment in all the year,—the great chestnuts
in blossom, and the grass all deep and daisied,—Tom
Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in the
evening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked
with the old deep-rooted affection at the respectable
red brick house, which always seemed cheerful and
inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the
hearts as sad as they might inside. There is a
very pleasant light in Tom’s blue-gray eyes
as he glances at the house-windows; that fold in his
brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it
seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly
be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have
their gentlest expression. His firm step becomes
quicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against
the compression which is meant to forbid a smile.
The eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the
bridge just then, and the group there was sitting
in unexpectant silence,—Mr. Tulliver in
his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating
with a worn look, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was
bending over her sewing while her mother was making
the tea.
They all looked up with surprise when they heard the
well-known foot.
“Why, what’s up now, Tom?” said
his father. “You’re a bit earlier
than usual.”
“Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so
I came away. Well, mother!”
Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of
unusual good-humor with him. Hardly a word or
look had passed between him and Maggie in all the
three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at home
prevented this from being noticeable to their parents.
“Father,” said Tom, when they had finished
tea, “do you know exactly how much money there
is in the tin box?”
“Only a hundred and ninety-three pound,”
said Mr. Tulliver. “You’ve brought
less o’ late; but young fellows like to have
their own way with their money. Though I didn’t
do as I liked before I was of age.”
He spoke with rather timid discontent.
“Are you quite sure that’s the sum, father?”
said Tom. “I wish you would take the trouble
to fetch the tin box down. I think you have perhaps
made a mistake.”
“How should I make a mistake?” said his
father, sharply. “I’ve counted it
often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won’t
believe me.”
It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his
gloomy life, to fetch the tin box and count the money.
“Don’t go out of the room, mother,”
said Tom, as he saw her moving when his father was
gone upstairs.
