Five hundred a year—five hundred a year—seemed to keep repeating itself to Luke Ross, as his eyes once more met those of Cyril Mallow, whose countenance wore a decided sneer.
“Then now, gentlemen, I think,” said the Rector, “we will proceed to vote.”
“Stop!” cried Luke Ross.
It was on the impulse of the moment. He had had no such thought when he entered the room.
“We will hear you, Mr Ross, after the voting is over,” said the Rector, quietly.
“No, sir,” replied Luke, “I must ask you to hear me first. I have decided not to accept the post.”
There was a dead silence in the room for a few moments after Luke Ross’s decisive words, a silence broken by Humphrey Bone, who relieved the excitement under which he laboured by starting from his seat, and bringing his thick-soled boot down with a tremendous clump upon the floor.
“Do I understand you to say, Mr Ross, that you decline the post?” exclaimed the Rector.
“Yes, sir, definitely,” replied Luke. “I could not, under the circumstances, think of accepting the appointment.”
There was another pause here, and then, led by Fullerton, the opposition party broke into a loud cheer.