The marriage fell in evil days. In 1823, the bubble of the Golden
Aunt's inheritance had burst. She died holding the hand of the
nephew she had so wantonly deceived; at the last she drew him down
and seemed to bless him, surely with some remorseful feeling; for
when the will was opened, there was not found so much as the
mention of his name. He was deeply in debt; in debt even to the
estate of his deceiver, so that he had to sell a piece of land to
clear himself. 'My dear boy,' he said to Charles, 'there will be
nothing left for you. I am a ruined man.' And here follows for me
the strangest part of this story. From the death of the
treacherous aunt, Charles Jenkin, senior, had still some nine years
to live; it was perhaps too late for him to turn to saving, and
perhaps his affairs were past restoration. But his family at least
had all this while to prepare; they were still young men, and knew
what they had to look for at their father's death; and yet when
that happened in September, 1831, the heir was still apathetically
waiting. Poor John, the days of his whips and spurs, and Yeomanry
dinners, were quite over; and with that incredible softness of the
Jenkin nature, he settled down for the rest of a long life, into
something not far removed above a peasant.
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