ful, vile! She oughtn't
to return to him."

"Pray, what is she to do?"

"I had rather she died than begin such a life!"

"I see no help for her. Her lot is that of many a woman no worse than
herself. We both foresaw it; Mallard foresaw it."

"I am afraid to look forward. I don't think she is the kind of woman to
forgive again and again. This will revolt her, and there is no telling
what she may do."

"It is the old difficulty. Short of killing herself, whatever she does
will be the beginning of worse things. In this respect, there's no
distinction between Cecily and the wife of the costermonger.
Civilization is indifferent. Her life is marred, and there's an end
on't."

Eleanor turned away. Her eyes were wet with tears of indignant sympathy.

CHAPTER XII

CECILY'S RETURN

On alighting at Charing Cross, Cecily searched the platform for Reuben.
There could be no doubt of his coming to meet her, for she had written
to tell him that Mrs. Lessingham would at once go into the country from
another station, and she would thus be alone. But she looked about and
waited in vain. In the end she took a cab, parted with her companion,
and drove homewards.

It was more than a trivial disappointment. On the journey, she had felt
a longing for home, a revival of affection; she had tried to persuade
herself that this long separation would have made a happy change, and
that their life might take a new colour. Had Reuben appeared 'at the
station, she would have pressed his hand warmly. Her health had
improved; hope was again welcome. It came not like the hope of years
ago, radiant, with eyes of ecstasy; but sober, homely, a gentle smile
on its compassionate lips.

His failure would easily be explained; either he had mistaken the
train, or something inevitable had hindered him; possibly she had made
a slip of the pen in writing. Nearing home, she grew tremulous,
nervously impatient. Before the cab had stopped, she threw the door
open.

The servant who admitted her wore an unusual expression, but Cecily did
not observe this.

"Mr. Elgar is at home?"

"No, ma'am."

"When did he go out?"

"He has not been at home for three days, ma'am."

Cecily controlled herself.

"There are some parcels in the cab. Take them up stairs."

She went into the study, and stood looking about her. On the
writing-table lay some unopened letters, all addressed to her husband;
also two or three that had been read and thrown aside. W