It was all the work of an instant. The woman shrieked with impotent rage; the drivers shouted and stormed at her; men and women, seeing her danger, cried out in their excitement; and, just as she came within reach of her husband's cab, she was struck by the shaft of a passing brougham, and fell beneath the horse's hoofs.
It was Lettice's hands that raised the insensible body from the mire. It was Alan who lifted her into an empty cab, and took her to the nearest hospital—whence she never emerged again until her last narrow home had been made ready to receive her.
Cora did not regain consciousness before she died. There was no death-bed confession, no clearing of her husband's name from the dishonor which she had brought upon it, no reawakening of any kind. Alan would have to go through the world unabsolved by any justification that she was capable of giving. But with Lettice at his side, he was strong enough, brave enough, to hear Society's verdict on his character with a smile, and to confront the world steadily, knowing what a coward thing its censure not unfrequently is; and how conscious courage and purity can cause it to slink, away abashed.
On a certain evening, early in the session of 1885, some half-dozen men were gathered together in a quiet angle of the members' smoking-room at the Oligarchy Club.
During the past day or two there had been unwonted jubilation in every corner of the Oligarchy, and with reason, as the Oligarchs naturally thought; for Mr. Gladstone's second Administration had suddenly come to an end. It had puzzled many good Conservatives to understand how that Administration, burdened by an accumulation of blunders and disasters, was able to endure so long; but at any rate the hour of doom had struck at last, and jubilation was natural enough amongst those who were likely, or thought they were likely, to profit by the change.
Sir John Pynsent and his friends had been discussing with much animation the probable distribution of the patronage which the see-saw of party government had now placed in the hands of the Conservative leader. Sir John, whose opinion on this subject was specially valued by his political associates, had already nominated the Cabinet and filled up most of the subordinate offices; and he had not omitted to bestow a place of honor and emolument upon his ambitious relative, Sydney Campion.
The good-natured baronet was due that evening at the house of Lord Montagu Plumley, and he hurried away to keep his appointment. When he had gone the conversation became less general and more unrestrained, and there were even a few notes of scepticism in regard to some of Sir John's nominations.
"Plumley is safe enough," said Mr. Charles Milton. "He has worked hard to bring about this result, and it would be impossible for the new Premier to pass him over. But it is quite another matter when you come to talk about Plumley's friends, or his friends' friends. I for one shall be very much surprised if Campion gets the solicitorship."
"He's not half a bad sort," said Tom Willoughby, "and his name is being put forward in the papers as though some people thought he had a very good chance."