we shall both regret."

His mother parted her lips to begin some other vehement truth, but on
looking at him she saw that in his face which led her to leave the
words unsaid. Yeobright walked once or twice across the room, and
then suddenly went out of the house. It was eleven o'clock when he
came in, though he had not been further than the precincts of the
garden. His mother was gone to bed. A light was left burning on the
table, and supper was spread. Without stopping for any food he
secured the doors and went upstairs.

IV

An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness

The next day was gloomy enough at Blooms-End. Yeobright remained in
his study, sitting over the open books; but the work of those hours
was miserably scant. Determined that there should be nothing in his
conduct towards his mother resembling sullenness, he had occasionally
spoken to her on passing matters, and would take no notice of the
brevity of her replies. With the same resolve to keep up a show of
conversation he said, about seven o'clock in the evening, "There's an
eclipse of the moon tonight. I am going out to see it." And, putting
on his overcoat, he left her.

The low moon was not as yet visible from the front of the house, and
Yeobright climbed out of the valley until he stood in the full flood
of her light. But even now he walked on, and his steps were in the
direction of Rainbarrow.

In half an hour he stood at the top. The sky was clear from verge to
verge, and the moon flung her rays over the whole heath, but without
sensibly lighting it, except where paths and water-courses had laid
bare the white flints and glistening quartz sand, which made streaks
upon the general shade. After standing awhile he stooped and felt the
heather. It was dry, and he flung himself down upon the barrow, his
face towards the moon, which depicted a small image of herself in each
of his eyes.

He had often come up here without stating his purpose to his mother;
but this was the first time that he had been ostensibly frank as to
his purpose while really concealing it. It was a moral situation
which, three months earlier, he could hardly have credited of himself.
In returning to labour in this sequestered spot he had anticipated
an escape from the chafing of social necessities; yet behold they
were here also. More than ever he longed to be in some world where
personal ambition was not the only recognized form of progress--such,
perhaps, as might