Right to the last word, there was the same unbroken, passionate strength and fervour, so that when it was all ended the House gave a start as though it had to rouse itself from some splendid vision.  And then came that rude and quick awakening which, in the world of actualities, always bursts in upon the most solemn and moving hours.  At about half-past eight every evening the Speaker or Chairman—­whichever is in the chair—­gets up and goes out to tea.  Before doing so the presiding officer calls upon the next speaker, and when the speaker has been named, cries “Order, order!” and promptly disappears into the room where his meal is laid.  Scarcely had Mr. Gladstone sat down when Mr. Mellor called upon Sir Richard Temple, then cried “Order, order!” and, almost within a couple of seconds after Mr. Gladstone had concluded, had vanished from the House.  This was immediately followed by the stampede of the rest of the House—­for by half-past eight everybody was famished with hunger—­and the Chamber was left empty, silent, and dim, with a suddenness that was startling, disconcerting, and a little disillusioning.  And then it was that the strongest proof was given of the effect of the speech.

[Sidenote:  The outburst.]

The House, I say, became empty—­but not altogether.  The Irish Benches, which had become crowded as the great apology for Ireland was being pronounced, remained still full—­full, but silent.  There was something strange, weird, startling in those benches, full and yet silent, amid all this emptiness and almost audible stillness; and some of the Liberal members, who had left the House in the mad rush to dinner, quietly stole back to see what was going to happen.  The explanation of the mystery soon came.  After he sat down, ghastly pale, almost painfully panting after this tremendous effort, Mr. Gladstone tarried a little to recover himself—­to say a few words to Mr. John Morley—­to scribble a note.  At last he rose, and then came the moment for which those silent Irish Benches had been waiting.  With one accord, with one quick and simultaneous spring, the Irish members were on their feet—­hats and handkerchiefs were waved; there was the suggestion of tears under the swelling cheers.  Nor were the Irish left alone.  The Liberals who had slipped back joined in.  The effectiveness of their cheers was heightened by the fact that they were not in their places, but standing on the floor.  From out their cheering ranks stood the splendid figure—­the broad shoulders, the massive head, the shaggy beard and hair, all the virility and sensitiveness that are found in the splendid form of Mr. Allen—­manufacturer and workman, poet and Radical.  The Old Man, splendidly composed, and yet profoundly moved, looked back, gave a courtly bow, and then went out.  And here it was that a little scene took place of which the public prints have hitherto contained no mention.  In her corner place in the gallery had sat throughout this dazzling speech that best of friends and truest of wives, who has been the guardian angel of Mr. Gladstone’s life; and with outstretched hands and dim eyes, she received her triumphant husband in the corridor, where she had been waiting for him.