As the merchant spoke, William and Jacobini hung their heads, and tears and blushes were on their cheeks together.
She remained in the house; and I need hardly say, that her cousin now looked upon her as his betrothed; and in the same manner did she regard him.
Before twelve months went round, her brother and her uncle arrived in London. It would be a vain task in me to picture their interview—to describe their joy—to pourtray their surprise. The reader will imagine it more vividly. Why should I tell how the brother wept upon the neck of his sister, and how her tears fell on his bosom; or how the merchant drew her uncle aside, and in a few words told him the affection that existed between his son and his niece, and of the worth of both. Nor need I tell how James Jerdan, after listening to the merchant, came forward with a full heart, and in one hand taking the hand of his niece, and in the other that of his son, joined them, saying—“Bless my children!”
Within a month, the indissoluble knot was tied between William and Jacobini, and they went down to Scotland to spend their honeymoon, her brother accompanying them; but her father-in-law refused to go with them, as he thought his presence might not be acceptable to her who was now the wife of his late sister’s husband.
Jacobini had never heard from her father, though she had often written to him, since she left his house. But from the day that she departed, ruin had followed fast upon him. When he left his business, because his wife was ashamed of it, business became ashamed of him. Her extravagance increased, and his property decreased. His villa, his carriage, his all that never should have belonged to him, became a jest among his neighbours. He was declared a bankrupt—he was cast into prison. The villa and the surrounding grounds were sold, the carriage was sold, and his wife went to reside with her father, who was then upon his death-bed.
When Jacobini, her husband, and her brother, arrived in H——, they found their father a captive in a prison-house. They entered the prison to see him; and when he beheld them, he knew only his daughter. But they all, they each embraced him; they called him “Father!” and the poor man wept, even as a child weeps. He spoke of their mother—he entreated their forgiveness; but his son and his daughter clung around his neck, and cried—“Say nothing, father!”
They sent for his solicitor. His son and his son-in-law paid his debts in the prison. They led him out in their arms. They sent for his wife, the gay Miss Scott, that was their cruel stepmother, her father had died about a week before, and she was left destitute, having ruined her husband.
“I will support my father,” said Francis; “but I will have nothing to do with maintaining that woman.”—for she had been sent for against his wish.
“Then I will support her,” said Jacobini—“William, will not you?” she added, addressing her husband. “Let bygones be bygones—she is my father’s wife—she must have cared for me before I could have cared for myself.”
“Yes, love, yes, we will support her,” said her husband.