business, indeed! You know well enough that the bird-stuffing now is a mere pretext; a mere something that I keep for my 'idle hands to do,' and that it's no necessity, thank the Lord! So let me bide here, lad, and aid in the good work. I think I may be of use among a few of them, yet." And he was right. Not merely was the old man's name known and venerated among the older "hands" as one of the "martyrs of '48," but his quaint caustic tongue made him an immense favourite with the younger men, and soon there were no meetings brought to a close without loud demands for a "bit speech" from Jack Byrne.
Nor was it amongst the farmer and manufacturing classes alone that Mr. Joyce received pledges of support. Several of the neighbouring county gentry and clergy, who had hung back during Mr. Bokenham's candidature, enrolled themselves on the committee of the new comer; and one of his most active adherents was Mr. Benthall. It was not until after due deliberation, and much weighing of pros and cons, that the head-master of Helmingham Grammar School took this step; but he smiled when he had thoroughly made up his mind, and muttered something to himself about its being "a shot for Madam in more ways than one." When he had decided he was by no means underhand in his conduct, but went straight to Mr. Creswell, taking the opportunity of catching him away from home and alone, and told him that the Benthall family had been staunch Liberals for generations; and that, however much he might regret being opposed in politics to a gentleman for whom he entertained such a profound esteem and regard, he could not forswear the family political faith. Mr. Creswell made him a polite reply, and forthwith forgot all about it; and Marian, though she was in the habit of questioning her husband pretty closely at the end of each day as to the progress he had made, looked upon Mr. Benthall's vote as so perfectly secure that she never asked about the matter.
Notwithstanding the favourable reception which he met with everywhere, and the success which seemed invariably to attend him in his canvass, Joyce found it very heavy work. The constant excitement soon began to tell upon him, and the absurdity of the questions sometimes asked, or the pledges occasionally required of him, irritated him so much that he began to inquire of himself whether he was really wise in going through with the affair, and whether he was not paying a little too dearly even for that revenge for which he had longed, and which was almost within his grasp. His fidelity to the cause to which he had pledged himself would doubtless have caused him to smother these murmurings without any extraneous aid; but just at that time he had an adventure which at once put an end to all doubt on the subject.
One bright wintry morning he arose at the hotel with the determination to take a day's rest from his labours, and to endeavour to recruit himself by a little quiet and fresh air. He had been up late the previous night at a very large meeting of his supporters, the largest as yet gathered together, which he had addressed with even more than wonted effect. He felt that he was speaking more forcibly than usual; he could not tell why, he did not even know what prompted him; but he felt it. It could not have been the presence of the parliamentary agent, Mr. Fyfe, who had come down from London to see how his young friend was getting on, and who was really very much astonished at his young friend's eloquence. Walter Joyce was speaking of the way in which the opposite party had, when in power, broken the pledges they had given, and laughed to scorn the promises they had made when seeking power, and in dilating upon it he used a personal illustration, comparing the voters to a girl who had been jilted and betrayed by her lover, who had been unexpectly raised to riches. Unconsciously fired by his own experience, he displayed a most forcible and highly-wrought picture of the despair of the girl and the villany of the man, and roused his audience to a perfect storm of enthusiasm. No one who heard him, as he thought, except Jack Byrne, had the least inkling of his story, or of its effect upon his eloquence; but the "hands" were immensely touched and delighted, and the effect was electrical. Walter went home thoroughly knocked up, and the next morning the reaction had set in. He felt it impossible to attend to business, sent messages to Mr. Fyfe and to Byrne, telling them they must get on without him for the day, and, after a slight breakfast, hurried out of the hotel by the back way. There were always plenty of loafers and idlers hanging round all sides of the house, eager to stare at him, to prefer a petition to him, or to point him out to their friends; but this morning he was
