Original Stories from Real Life/Chapter 10
CHAP. X.
The Danger of Delay—Deſcription of a Manſion-houſe in Ruins—The Hiſtory of Charles Townley.
MRS. Maſon who always regulated her own time, and never loitered her hours irreſolutely away, had very frequently to wait for the children, when ſhe wiſhed to walk, though ſhe had deſired them to be ready at a preciſe time. Mary in particular had a trick of putting everything off till the laſt moment, and then ſhe did but half do it, or left it undone. This indolent way of delaying made her miſs many opportunities of obliging and doing good; and whole hours were loſt in thoughtleſs idleneſs, which ſhe afterwards wiſhed had been better employed.
This was the caſe one day, when ſhe had a letter to write to her father; and though it was mentioned to her early in the morning, the fineſt part of the evening ſlipped away whilſt ſhe was finiſhing it; and her haſte made her forget the principal thing which ſhe intended to have ſaid.
Out of breath ſhe joined them; and after they had croſſed ſeveral fields, Mrs. Maſon turning down a long avenue, bade them look at a large old manſion-houſe. It was now in ruins. Ivy grew over the ſubſtantial walls, that ſtill reſiſted the depredations of time, and almoſt concealed a noble arch, on which maimed lions couched; and vultures and eagles, who had loſt their wings, ſeemed to reſt for ever there. Near it was a rookery, and the rooks lived ſafe in the high trees, whoſe trunks were all covered with ivy or moſs, and a number of funguſſes grew about their large roots. The graſs was long, and remained undiſturbed, ſave when the wind ſwept acroſs it, was of courſe pathleſs. Here the mower never whet his ſcythe, nor did the haymkaers mix their ſongs with the hoarſe croaking of the rooks. A ſpacious baſon, on the margins of which water plants grew with wild luxuriance, was overſpread with ſlime; and afforded a ſhelter for toads and adders. In many places were heaped the ruins of ornamental buildings, whilſt ſun dials reſted in the ſhade; and pedeſtals, that had cruſhed the figures they before ſupported. Making their way through the graſs, they would frequently ſtumble over a headleſs ſtatue, or the head would impede their progreſs. When they ſpoke, the ſound ſeemed to return again, as if unable to penetrate the thick ſtagnated air. The ſun could not dart its purifying rays through the thick gloom, and the fallen leaves contributed to choke up the way, and render the air more noxious.
I brought you to this place on purpoſe this evening, ſaid Mrs. Maſon to the children, who clung about her, to tell you the hiſtory of the laſt inhabitant; but, as this part is unwholeſome, we will ſit on the broken ſtones of the drawbridge.
Charles Townley was a boy of uncommon abilities, and ſtrong feelings; but he ever permitted thoſe feelings to direct his conduct, without ſubmitting to the reaction of reaſon; I mean, the preſent emotion governed him. He had not any ſtrength or conſiſtency of character; one moment he enjoyed a pleaſure, and the next felt the pangs of remorſe, on account of ſome duty which he had neglected. He always indeed intended to act right in every particular to-morrow; but to-day he followed the prevailing whim.
He heard by chance of a man in great diſtreſs, he determined to relieve him, and left his houſe in order to follow the humane impulſe; but meeting an acquaintance, he was perſuaded to go to the play, and to-morrow, he thought, he would do the act of charity. The next morning ſome company came to breakfast with him, and took him with them to view ſome fine pictures. In the evening he went to a concert; the day following he was tired, and laid in bed till noon; then read a pathetic ſtory, well wrought up, wept over it—fell aſleep—and forgot to act humanely. An accident reminded him of his intention; he ſent to the man, and found that he had too long delayed—the relief was uſeleſs.
In this thoughtleſs manner he ſpent his time and fortune; never applying to any profeſſion, though formed to ſhine in any one he ſhould have choſen. His friends were offended, and at laſt allowed him to languiſh in a gaol; and as there appeared no probability of reforming or fixing him, they left him to ſtruggle with adverſity.
Severely did he reproach himself—He was almost loſt in deſpair, when a friend viſited him. This friend loved the latent ſparks of virtue which he imagined would ſome time or other light up, and animate his conduct. He paid his debts, and gave him a ſum of money ſufficient to enable him to prepare for a voyage to the Eaſt Indies, where Charles wiſhed to go, to try to regain his loſt fortune. Through the interceſſion of this kind, conſiderate friend, his relations were reconciled to him, and his ſpirits raiſed.
He ſailed with a fair wind, and fortune favouring his moſt romantic wishes, in the ſpace of fifteen years, he acquired a much larger fortune than he had even hoped for, and thought of viſiting, nay, ſettling in his native country for the remainder of his life.
Though impreſſed by the moſt lively ſenſe of gratitude, he had dropped his friend's correſpondence; yet, as he knew that he had a daughter, his firſt determination was to reſerve for her the greater part of his property, as the most ſubſtantial proof which he could give of his gratitude.—The thought pleaſed him, and that was ſufficient to divert him for ſome months; but accidentally hearing that his friend had been very unſucceſsful in trade, this information made him wiſh to haſten his return to his native country. Still a procraſtinating ſpirit poſſeſſed him, and he delayed from time to time the arduous taſk of ſettling his affairs, previous to his departure: he wrote, however, to England, and tranſmitted a conſiderable ſum to a correſpondent, deſiring that this houſe might be prepared for him, and the mortgage cleared.
I can ſcarcely enumerate the various delays that prevented his embarking; and when he arrived in England, he came here, and was ſo childiſhly eager to have his houſe fitted up with taſte, that he actually trifled away a month, before he went to ſeek for his friend.
But his negligence was now ſeverely puniſhed. He learned that he had been reduced to great diſtreſs, and thrown into the very gaol, out of which he took Townley, who, haſtening to it, only found his dead body there; for he died the day before. On the table was lying, amidſt ſome other ſcraps of paper, a letter, directed in an unſteady hand to Charles Townley. He tore it open. Few were the ſcarcely legible lines; but they ſmote his heart. He read as follows:—
"I have been reduced by unforeſeen misfortunes; yet when I heard of your arrival, a gleam of joy cheered my heart—I thought I knew your's, and that my latter days might ſtill have been made comfortable in your ſociety, for I loved you; I even expected pleaſure; but I was miſtaken; death is my only friend."
He read it over and over again; and cried out, Gracious God, had I arrived but one day ſooner I ſhould have ſeen him, and he would not have died thinking me the moſt ungrateful wretch that ever burdened the earth! He then knocked his clinched fiſt againſt his forehead, looked wildly round the dreary apartment, and exclaimed in a choked, though impatient tone, You ſat here yeſterday, thinking of my ingratitude—Where are you now? Oh! that I had ſeen you! Oh! that my repenting ſighs could reach you!—
He ordered the body to be interred, and returned home a prey to grief and deſpondency. Indulging it to exceſs, he neglected to enquire after his friend's daughter; he intended to provide amply for her, but now he could only grieve.
Some time elapſed, then he ſent, and the intelligence which he procured aggravated his diſtreſs, and gave it a ſevere additional ſting.
The poor gentle girl had, during her father's life, been engaged to a worthy young man; but, ſome time after his death, the relations of her lover had ſent him to ſea to prevent the match taking place. She was helpleſs, and had not ſufficient courage to combat with poverty; to escape from it, ſhe married an old rake whom ſhe deteſted. He was ill-humoured, and his vicious habits rendered him a moſt dreadful companion. She tried in vain to pleaſe him, and baniſh the ſorrow that bent her down, and made wealth and all the pleaſures it could procure taſteleſs. Her tender father was dead—ſhe had lost her lover—without a friend or confident, ſilent grief conſumed her. I have told you friendſhip is only to be found amongſt the virtuous; her huſband was vicious.
Ah! why did she marry, ſaid Mary?
Because ſhe was timid; but I have not told you all; the grief that did not break her heart, diſturbed her reaſon; and her huſband confined her in a mad-houſe.
Charles heard of this laſt circumſtance; he viſited her. Fanny, ſaid he, do you recollect your old friend? Fanny looked at him, and reaſon for a moment reſumed her ſeat, and informed her countenance to trace anguiſh on it—the trembling light ſoon diſappeared—wild fancy fluſhed in her eyes, and animated her inceſſant rant. She ſung ſeveral verſes of different ſongs, talked of her huſband's ill-uſage—enquired if he had lately been to ſea; and frequently addreſſed her father as if he were behind her chair, or ſitting by her.
Charles could not bear this ſcene—If I could loſe like her a ſenſe of woe, he cried, this intolerable anguiſh would not tear my heart! The fortune which he had intended for her could not reſtore her reaſon; but, had he ſent for her ſoon after her father’s death, he might have ſaved her and comforted himſelf.
The laſt ſtroke was worſe than the firſt; he retired to this abode; melancholy creeping on him, he let his beard grow, and the garden run wild. One room in the houſe the poor lunatic inhabited; and he had a proper perſon to attend her, and guard her from the dangers ſhe wiſhed to encounter. Every day he viſited her, the ſight of her would almoſt have unhinged a ſound mind—How could he bear it, when his conſcience reproached him, and whiſpered that he had neglected to do good, to live to any rational purpoſe—The ſweets of friendſhip were denied, and he every day contemplated the ſaddest of all ſights—the wreck of a human underſtanding.
He died without a will. The estate was litigated, and as the title to this part could not be proved, the houſe was let fall into its preſent state.
But the night will overtake us, we muſt make haſte home—Give me your hand, Mary, you tremble; ſurely I need not deſire you to remember this ſtory—Be calm, my child, and remember that you muſt attend to trifles; do all the good you can the preſent day, nay hour, if you would keep your conſcience clear. This circumſpection may not produce dazzling actions, nor will your ſilent virtue be ſupported by human applauſe; but your Father, who ſeeth in ſecret, will reward you.