So far I had read when I looked up at the steward in a sudden perplexity.
"I do not understand why Sir John should disinherit his son, who is, at all events, a Protestant, because he is a Jacobite, in favour of myself, who am no less a Jacobite, and one of the true faith besides."
The steward made a little uneasy movement of impatience. "I was not so deep in my master's confidence that I can answer that."
I held out the will to him, though my fingers clung to it. "I cannot," I said, "take up the inheritance."
It was not, however, the steward, but the rector who took the paper from me. He read it through with great deliberation, and then—
"You did not finish," he said, and pointed his finger to the last clause.
"I saw no use in reading more, Father," I replied; but I took the will again and glanced at the clause. It was to this effect: that if I failed to observe the one condition or did not enter into possession from whatsoever cause, the estate should become the property of the Crown.
"I cannot help it," I said. "To swell the treasury of the Hanoverian by however so little, is the last thing I would wish to do, but I cannot help it. Mr. Jervas Rookley suffers in that he is what I pride myself on being. I cannot benefit by his sufferings," and I folded up the will.
"There is another way, sir," suggested the steward, diffidently.
"Another way?" I asked.