“No,” replied the other, “for I have just seen him, and can say at once that he is prepared to give it you. He has behaved throughout in a most generous manner, and the consequence is that I have nothing more to do except to offer you my congratulations on your preferment.” For a moment Clode could scarcely believe in his happiness. In the short space of two minutes he had tasted to the full both the pleasure of hope and the pang of despair. Could it be that all that was over already? That the period of waiting and uncertainty was past and gone? That the prize to which he had looked so long—and with the prize the woman he loved—was his at last?—was actually in his grasp? His head reeled, great as was his self-control, and a haze rose before his eyes. As this passed away he became conscious that the archdeacon was shaking his hand with great heartiness, and that the thing was real! He was rector, or as good as rector, of Claversham. The object of his ambition was his! He was happy: perhaps it was the happiest moment of his life. He had even time to wonder whether he could not do Lindo a good turn—whether he could not somehow make it up to him. “You are very good,” he muttered, gratefully pressing the archdeacon’s hand. “I am glad it is not a stranger,” that gentleman replied heartily. “Oh,” he continued, turning and speaking in a different tone, “is that you, Mr. Bonamy? Well, there can be no harm in your hearing the news also. You are people’s warden, of course, and have a kind of claim to hear it early. To be sure you have.” “What is the news?” Mr. Bonamy asked rather shortly. He had risen and drawn near unnoticed, Jack Smith behind him. “Do I understand that Lord Dynmore has accepted the rector’s resignation?” “That is so.” “And that he proposes to present Mr. Clode?” the lawyer continued, looking at the curate as he named him. “Precisely,” replied the archdeacon, without hesitation. “I hope you have no objection, Mr. Bonamy,” said the curate, bowing slightly with a gracious air. He could afford to be gracious now. He even felt good—as men in such moments do. But in the lawyer’s response there was no graciousness, nor much apparent goodness. “I am afraid,” he said, standing up gaunt and stiff, with a scowl on his face, “that I must take advantage of that saving clause, Mr. Clode. I am people’s warden, as the archdeacon says, and frankly I object to your appointment—to your appointment as rector here.” “You object!” the curate stammered, between wrath and wonder. “Bless me!” exclaimed the archdeacon in unmixed astonishment. “What do you mean?”