The Hard-Won Triumph
THREE weeks later, when Dorlill 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 affe 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, ihere is a very pleasant light in Toms blue-grey eyes as he gla the house-windows: that fold in his brow never disappears but it is not unbeing - it seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their ge expression. His firm step bees quicker, and the ers of his mouth rebel against the pression which is meant to forbid a smile.
The eyes in the parlour were not turowards the bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in uant silence: Mr Tulliver in his armchair, 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 whats up now, Tom? said his father. `Youre a bit earlier than usual.
`O, 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-humour with him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his usual inunicativeness at home prevehis from being noticeable to their parents.
`Father, said Tom, when they had fiea, `do you kly how much mohere is iin box?
`Only a hundred and hree pound, said Mr Tulliver. `Youve brought less o late - but young fellows like to have their oith their mohough I didnt do as I liked before I was of age. He spoke with rather timid distent.
`Are you quite sure thats 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. `Ive ted it often enough. But I fetch it - if you wont believe me.
It was always an i Mr Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, to fetch the tin box and t the money.
`Dont go out of the room, mother, said Tom, as he saw her moving, when his father was gone upstairs.
`And isnt Maggie to go? said Mrs Tulliver, `because somebody must take away the things.
`Just as she likes, said Tom indifferently.
That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the sudden vi that Tom was going to tell their father, the debts could be paid - and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was told! But she carried away the tray, and came back immediately. The feeling of injury on her own behalf could not predomi that moment.
Tom drew to the er of the table near his father, whein box was set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on them made spicuous the worn, sloom of the dark-eyed father and the suppressed joy in the face of the fair-plexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at the other end of the table; the one in blank patiehe other in palpitating expectation.
Mr Tulliver ted out the money, setting it in order oable, and then said, glang sharply at Tom,
`There, now! you see I was right enough.
He paused, looking at the money with bitter desponde