The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

It would conduce but little to the business of our story were we to follow the changeful fortunes of the war, and trace the current of events which marked that important campaign. The struggle itself is already well known; the secret history of the contest has yet to be written. We have hinted at some of the machinations which provoked the conflict; we have shown the deep game by which Democracy was urged on to its own destruction; and, by the triumph of Absolutism, the return of the Church to her ancient rule provided and secured; we have vaguely shadowed out the dark wiles by which freedom and anarchy were inseparably confounded, and the cause of liberty was made to seem the denial of all religion. It would take us too far away from the humble track of our tale were we to dwell on this theme, or stop to adduce the various evidences of the truth of our assumption. We pass on, therefore, and leave D’Esmonde the task of chronicling some of the results of that memorable period.

The letter, from which we propose to make some extracts was addressed, like his former one, to his Irish correspondent, and opened with a kind of thanksgiving over the glorious events of the preceding few weeks, wherein victory succeeded victory, and the Austrians once again became the masters of haughty Milan. We pass over the exulting description the Abbé gave of the discord and dissension in the Patriotic ranks; the reckless charges of treachery made against Carlo Alberto himself, for not undertaking the defence of a city destitute of everything; and the violent insubordination of the Lombards as the terrible hour of their retribution drew nigh. We have not space for his graphic narrative of the King’s escape from Milan, protected by an Austrian escort, against the murderous assaults of fellow-patriots. These facts are all before the world; nor would it contribute to their better understanding were we to adduce the partisan zeal with which the priest detailed them.

“The struggle, you will thus see,” wrote he, “is over. The blasphemer and the democrat have fallen together, and it will take full a century to rally from the humiliation of such a defeat. Bethink you, my dear Michel, what that same century may make the Church, and how, if we be but vigorous and watchful, every breach in the glorious fortress may be repaired, every outwork strengthened, every bastion newly mounted, and her whole garrison refreshed and invigorated. Without a great convulsion like this we were lost! The torpor of peace brought with it those habits of thought and reflection – the sworn enemies of all faith! As governments grew more popular they learned to rely less on our aid. The glorious sway of Belief was superseded by direct appeals to what they called common sense, and imperceptibly, but irrevocably, the world was being Protestantized. Do not fancy that my fears have exaggerated this evil. I speak of what I know thoroughly and well. Above all, do not mistake me, as though I confounded this wide-spread heresy with what you see around you in Ireland, those backslidings which you so aptly called ‘soup conversions.’ “By Protestantism, I mean something more dangerous than Anglicanism, which, by the way, has latterly shown itself the very reverse of an enemy. The peril I dread is that spirit of examination and inquiry which, emboldened by the detection of some trumpery trick, goes on to question the great dogma of our religion. And here I must say, that these miracles – as they will call them – have been most ill- judged and ill-timed. Well adapted as they are to stimulate faith and warm zeal in remote and unvisited villages, they are serious errors when they aspire to publicity and challenge detection. I have done all I could to discountenance them; but even in the Vatican, my dear Michel, there are men who fancy we are living in the sixteenth century. What are you to do with a deafness that cannot be aroused by the blast of a steam-engine, and which can sleep undisturbed by the thunder of railroads? Well, let us be thankful for a little breathing time; the danger from these heretics is over for the present. And here I would ask of you to mark how the very same result has taken place wherever the battle was fought. The Church has been triumphant everywhere. Is this accident, my dear friend? Was it mere chance that confounded counsels here, and dealt out ruin to Ireland also? Why did our policy come to a successful issue, here, by a dangerous conflict; and, with you, by abstaining from one? Why, because it was truth – eternal, immutable truth – for which we struggled. I must say that if our game called for more active exertions, and perhaps more personal hazards, yours in Ireland was admirably devised. There never was a more complete catastrophe than that into which you betrayed your Mitchells and Meaghers; and does not the blind credulity of such men strike you as a special and Divine infliction? I own I think so. They were, with all their hot blood, and all the glow of their youth, serious thinkers and calm reasoners. They could detect the finger of England in every tangled scheme, and yet they never saw the shadow of your hand as it shook in derision over them. Yes, Michel, the game was most skilfully played, and I anticipate largely from it. The curtain thus falls upon the first act of the drama; let us set about to prepare for its rising. I am far from saying that many errors – some of the gravest kind – have not been committed in the conduct of this affair. More than one grand opportunity has gone by without profit; and even my suggestion about the restoration of the States of the Church to their ancient limits within the Venetian provinces – a demand which Rome has formerly renewed every year since the treaty of Campo Formio, and which might now have been pressed with success – even this was neglected! But what could be done with a runaway Pope and a scattered Consistory? Your letter, my dear Michel, is a perfect catechism – all questions! I must try a reply to some, at least, of its inquiries. You are anxious about the endowment of the Ursulines, and so am I; but unfortunately I can tell you little of my progress in that direction. Lady Hester Onslow would appear to have fallen into an entanglement of some sort with Lord Norwood; and although I have in my possession the means of preventing a marriage with him, or annulling it, if it should take place, yet the very exercise of this power, on my part, would as inevitably destroy all my influence over her, and be thus a mere piece of profitless malice. This, therefore, is a matter of some difficulty, increased, too, by his hasty departure from Florence – they say for England; but I have no clew to his destination, for he left this on the very day I last wrote to you – the day of my visit to the Moskova – in which you seem to be so much interested. Strangely enough, Michel, both this man and the Russian seemed to feel that they were in the toils, and broke away, rather than hazard an encounter with me. And they were right, too! For the deep game of life, there is no teaching like that of the cloister; and if we be not omnipotent, it is owing to our weakness of purpose. Hildebrand knew this – Boniface knew it also; but we have fallen upon poor successors of these great men! What might not a great Pope be in the age we live in! – one whose ambition was commensurate with his mission, and who had energy and courage for the task before him! Oh! how I felt this, some nights ago, as I sat closeted with our present ruler – would you believe it, Michel, he has no higher guide or example than the weak and kind-hearted Pius the Seventh? To imitate him is the whole rule of his faith, and to resemble him, even in his misfortunes, has become an ambition. How he strung for me the commonplaces of that good man, as though they had been the distilled essences of wisdom! Alas! alas! the great heritage of the Church has not been won by Quaker Popes. “You ask about myself. All goes well. The die is cast; and so far, at least, a great point gained. The Austrians saw the matter in its true light, and with justice perceived that diplomacy is a war of reprisals. How I glory in the anticipation of this vengeance upon England, the encourager and abettor of all the treason against our Faith! How little do they suspect the storm that is gathering around them; how tranquilly are they walking over the ground that is to be earthquaken! The letters and diplomas are all prepared. The Bull itself is ready; to-morrow, if it were opportune, I might be proclaimed a prince of the Church and an Archhishop of an English see! As in every great event of life the moment is everything, the question is now one of time. Guardoni – and I look upon him as the shrewdest of the cardinals – says, ‘Wait! our cause is advancing every day in England; every post brings us tidings of desertions to our army, – men distinguished in rank, station, or intellect. In our controversies we have suffered no defeats, while our moderation has gained us many well-wishers; we have a tone of general liberality to work upon that is eminently favorable to a policy meek, lowly, and unpretending. Therefore, I say, Wait; and do not forfeit such advantages for the glory of a pageant’ Against this it might be urged, that the hour is come to proclaim our victory; and that it would be a craven policy not to unfurl our banner above the walls we have won! I repose less trust in the force of this reasoning than in another view of the subject; and it is to the ricochet of our shot, Michel, that I look for the damage of our enemy. My calculation is this: the bold pretensions we advance will arouse the passions of the whole island; meetings and addresses and petitions will abound. All the rampant insolence of outraged bigotry, all the blatant denunciations of insulted protestantism, will burst forth like a torrent. We shall be assailed in pamphlets and papers; caricatured, hooted, burned in effigy. A wily and well-conducted opposition on our part will fan and feed this flame. Some amongst us will assume the moderate tone: invoke the equality that pertains to every born Briton, and ask for the mere undisturbed exercise of our faith. Others, with greater boldness, will adventure sorties against the enemy, and thus provoke reply and discussion. To each will be assigned his suited task. A laboring for the one great object, – to maintain the national fever at a white heat, to suffer no interval of calm reflection to come, and to force upon the Parliament, by the pressure of outward opinion, some severe or at least some galling act of legislation. This once accomplished, our game is won, and the great schism we have so long worked for effected! It will then be the Government on one side and the Church on the other. Could you wish for anything better? For myself, I care little how the campaign be then conducted; the victory must be our own. I have told you again and again there is no such policy against England as that of hampering the course of her justice. It was O’Connell’s secret; he had no other; and he never failed till he attempted something higher. First, provoke a rash legislation, and then wait for the discomfiture that will follow it! With all the boasted working of the great constitution, what a mere trifle disturbs and disjoints it! Ay, Michel, a rusty nail in the cylinder will spoil the play of the piston, although the engine be rated at a thousand horse-power. Such a conflict with Protestantism is exactly like the effect of a highly disciplined army taking the field against a mob. With us all is preconcerted, prearranged, and planned; with them everything is impulsive, rash, and ill-advised. This glorious prerogative of private judgment becomes a capital snare, when measures should be combined and united. Fancy, I ask of you, – fancy all the splendid errors of their hot enthusiasm; think of the blunders they will commit on platform or pulpit; reflect upon the folly and absurdity that will fill the columns of the public journals, and all the bigoted balderdash the press will groan under! What coarse irony, what Billingsgate shall we hear of our Holy Church, – her saints, her miracles, and her dogmas, – what foul invectives against her pious women and their lives of sanctity! And then think of the glorious harvest that will follow, as we reply to insult by calm reasonings, to bigotry by words of charity and enlightenment, appealing to the nation at large for their judgment on which side truth should lie, – with intolerance, or with Christian meekness and submission? “Prepare, then, I say, for the coming day; the great campaign is about to open, and neither you nor I, Michel, will live to see the end of the battle. On this side the Alps, all has happened as we wished. Italian Liberalism is crushed and defeated. The Piedmontese are driven back within their frontier, their army beaten, and their finances all but exhausted, and Austria is again at the head of Northern Italy. Rome will now be grander and more glorious than ever. No more truckling to Liberalism, no more faith in the false prophets of Freedom. Our gorgeous ‘Despotism’ will arise reinvigorated by its trials, and the Church will proclaim herself the Queen of Europe! “It is an inestimable advantage to have convinced these meek and good men here that there is but one road to victory, and that all alliance with what are called politicians is but a snare and a delusion. “The Pope sees this at last, but nothing short of wounded pride could have taught him the lesson. “Now to your last query, my dear Michel, and I feel all gratitude for the warm interest with which you make it. What is to be done I know not. I am utterly ignorant of my parentage, even of my birthplace. In the admission-book of Salamanca I stand thus: ‘Samuel Eustace, native of Ireland, aged thirteen years and seven months; stipendiary of the second class.’ There lies my whole history. A certain Mr. Godfrey had paid all the expenses of my journey from Louvain, and, up to the period of his death, continued to maintain me. From Louvain I can learn nothing. I was a ‘Laic’ they believed, – perhaps No. 134 or 137 – they do not know which; and these are but sorry facts from which to derive the baptismal registry of a future cardinal. And yet something must be done, and speedily too. On the question of birth the Sacred College is peremptory. You will say that there ought to be no difficulty in devising a genealogy where there are no adverse claims to conflict; and if I could go over to Ireland, perhaps the matter might be easy enough. At this moment, however, my presence here is all-essential, while I am not without a hope that accident may afford me a clew to what I seek. A few days ago I was sent for from Malgherra to attend the dying bed of a young officer, whose illness had so completely disordered his brain that he forgot every word of the foreign language he was accustomed to speak, and could only understand or reply in his native English. Although I had other and more pressing cases to attend to, the order coming from an archduke made obedience imperative, and so I hastened over to Verona, where the sick youth lay. Conceive my surprise, Michel, to discover that he was the same Dalton, – the boy whom I have so often adverted to, as eternally crossing my path in life, – the relative of that Godfrey who was my early patron. I have already confessed to you, Michel, that I felt towards this youth in a way for which my calmest reason could render no account. Gamblers have often told me of certain antipathies they have experienced, and that the mere presence of an individual – one totally unknown to them, perhaps – has been so ominous of ill-luck that they dare not risk a bet while he remained in the room. I know you will say that men who pass their lives in the alternation of hope and fear become the slaves of every shadow that crosses the imagination, and that they are sorry pilots to trust to. So they are, Michel; they art meanly minded, they are sordid, and they are low; their thoughts never soar above the card or the hazard table; they are dead to all emotions of family and affection; the very events that are convulsing the world are less audible to their ears than the ring of the dice-box; and yet, with all this – would you believe it? – they are deep in the mysteries of portents. Their intense study of what we call chance has taught them to combine and arrange and discipline every atom and accident that can influence an event. They have their days of good and evil fortune, and they have their agencies that sway them to this side or to that. Chemistry shows us that substances that resemble metals are decomposed by the influence of light alone, – do not, then, despise the working of that gleam that darts from a human eye and penetrates within the very recesses of your brain. “Be the theory true or false, the phenomena exercise a deep influence over me, and I have never ceased to regard this boy as one inextricably interwoven with myself and my own fortunes; I felt a degree of dread at his contact, which all my conscious superiority of mind and intellect could not allay. In vain have I endeavored to reason myself out of these delusions, but in the realm of imagination reason is inoperative; as well might a painter try to commit to his palette the fleeting colors of the rainbow. Shall I own to you that in moments of illness or depression this terror magnified itself to giant proportions, and a thousand wild and incongruous fancies would fill my mind? I bethought me of involving him in such difficulty that he would no longer be at large; as a prisoner or an exile, I should never see him more. Every snare I tried was a failure; the temptations that were most adapted to his nature he resisted; the wiles I threw around him he escaped from. Was there not a fate in all this? Assuredly there was and is, Michel. I cannot tell you the relief of mind I should feel if this boy had shared the fate of your patriots, and that the great sea was to roll between him and Europe forever. Twenty times a day I think of Dirk Hatteraick’s expression with respect to Brown: ‘That boy has been a rock ahead of me all through life;’ and be assured that the characters of fiction are often powerful teachers. “And now to my narrative. The same note which requested my visit at Verona begged of me, if I possibly could accomplish it, to provide some English person who should sit up with the sick youth and nurse him. I was not sorry to receive this commission; I wished to learn more about this boy than the confessional at such a time could teach; and could I only find a suitable agent, this would not be difficult. Chance favored me strangely enough. Amongst the prisoners taken at Ancona I found an Irish fellow, who, it appears, had taken service in the Piedmontese navy. He had been some years in America and the West Indies, and from the scattered remarks that he let fall, I perceived that he was a man of shrewd and not over-scrupulous nature. He comprehended me in an instant; and, although I was most guarded in giving my instructions, the fellow read my intentions at once. This shrewdness might, in other circumstances, have its inconveniences, but here it gave me no alarm. I was the means of his liberation, and were he troublesome, I could consign him to the prison again, – to the galleys, if needed. In company with this respectable ally, I set out for the headquarters. On my arrival I waited on the Count von Auersberg, in whose house the sick boy lay. This old man, who is Irish by birth, is more Austrian in nature than the members of the House of Hapsburg. I found him fully convinced that the white-coated legions had reconquered Lombardy by their own unaided valor, and I left him in the same pleasant delusion. It appeared that a certain Count von Walstein was enabled to clear young Dalton’s character from all taint of treason, by exhibiting, in his own correspondence, some letters and documents that related to the events detailed in Frank’s writing, and of which he could have had no possible knowledge. This avowal may be a serious thing for Walstein, but rescues the young Dalton at once, and proves that he was merely the writer of Ravitzky’s sentiments; so that here, again, Michel, he escapes. Is not this more than strange? “It was not without anxiety that I passed the threshold of the sick-chamber; but happily it was darkened, and I soon saw that the sick youth could never recognize me, were his senses even unclouded. He lay motionless, and I thought insensible; but after I spoke to him he rallied a little, and asked after his father and his sisters. He had not yet heard that his father was dead; and it was affecting to hear the attempt he made to vindicate his honor, and show that he had never been disloyal. By degrees I brought him to talk of himself. He saw that he was dying, and had no fears of death; but there seemed as if his conscience was burdened by some heavy weight, less like guilt than the clew to some strange and dark affair. The revelation – if it deserved the name, for it was made in broken sentences – now uttered with rapid vehemence, now scarcely audible – was of the vaguest kind. You may imagine, however, the interest I felt in the narrative as the name Godfrey passed his lips. To know my anxiety to trace some tie of family to these Godfreys. They were gentry of ancient blood and good name, and would amply satisfy the demands of the Sacred College; so that when the boy spoke of Godfrey, I listened with intense curiosity; but – shall I own it? – all my practised skill, all my science of the sick-bed, was unable to tell me what were the utterings of an unclouded intellect, and what the wild fitful fancies of fever. I know, for I have repeatedly heard it from his sister’s lips, that this youth has never been in Ireland, and yet he spoke of the peculiar scenery of a certain spot just as if he had traversed it yesterday. Mind, that I am carefully distinguishing between what might be the impression left by often hearing of a scene from others, and that which results from personal observation. His was altogether of the latter kind. As, for instance, when describing a garden, he mentioned how the wind wafted the branches of a weeping ash across a window, so as to confuse the scene that went on within; and then he shuddered terribly, and, with a low sigh, exclaimed, ‘The light went out after that.’ These are not ravings, Michel. This boy knows something of that dark mystery I have more than once alluded to in my letters. Could it be that his own father was in some way implicated in the affair? Bear in mind how he came to live abroad, and never returned to Ireland. From all I can learn, the old Dalton was a bold and reckless character, that would scarcely have stopped at anything. Assuredly, the son’s conscience is heavily burdened! Now, there is an easy way to test the truth or fallacy of all this; and herein you must aid me, Michel. I have carefully noted every word the boy spoke; I have treasured every syllable that fell from him. If his description of the scene be correct, the mystery may be unravelled. This you can speedily ascertain by visiting the spot. It is not more than twenty miles from you, and about three or four, I believe, from the little village of Inistioge; it is called Corrig- O’Neal, – a place of some importance once, but now, as I hear, a ruin. Go thither, Michel, and tell me correctly all these several points. First, does the character of the river scenery suddenly change at this spot, and, from an aspect of rich and leafy beauty, exhibit only dark and barren mountains without a tree or a shrub? Is the old manor-house itself only a short distance from the stream, and backed by these same gloomy mountains? The house itself, if unaltered, should be high-peaked in roof, with tall, narrow windows, and a long terrace in front; an imitation, in fact, of an old French château. These, as you will see, are such facts as might have been heard from another; but now I come to some less likely to have been so learned. “From this boy’s wanderings, I collect that there is a woodland path through these grounds, skirting the river in some places, and carried along the mountain-side by a track escarped in the rock itself. If this ever existed, its traces will still be visible. I am most curious to know this fact. I can see the profound impression it has made on the youth’s mind, by the various ways in which he recurs to it, and the deep emotion it always evokes. At times, indeed, his revelations grow into something like actual descriptions of an event he had witnessed; as, for instance, last night he started from his sleep, his brow all covered with perspiration, and his eyes glaring wildly. ‘Hush!’ he cried; ‘hush! He is crossing the garden, now; there he is at the door; lie still – lie still.’ I tried to induce him to talk on, but he shuddered timidly, and merely said, ‘It’s all over, he has strewn leaves over the spot, let us go away.’ you will perhaps say that I attach undue importance to what may be the mere outpourings of a fevered intellect, but there is an intensity in the feeling which accompanies them, and, moreover, there is a persistence in the way he always comes back to them, that are not like the transient terrors that haunt distracted minds. No, Michel, there is a mystery, and a dreadful one, connected with this vision. Remember! that the secret of Godfrey’s death has never been cleared up; the breach which separated him from these Daltons was then at its widest. Dalton’s character you are familiar with; and, although abroad at that time, who can say what agencies may not have worked for him? Give your serious consideration to these facts, and tell me what you think. You know me too well and too long to suppose that I am actuated by motives of mere curiosity, or simply the desire to trace the history of a crime. I own to you, that with all my horror of blood, I scarcely grieve as I witness the fruitless attempts of English justice to search out the story of a murder. I feel a sort of satisfaction at the combat between Saxon dulness and Celtic craft – between the brute force of the conqueror and the subtle intelligence of the conquered – that tells me of a time to come when these relations shall be reversed. Acquit me, therefore, of any undue zeal for the observance of laws that only remind me of our slavery. However clear and limpid the stream may look, I never forget that its source was in foulness! I am impelled here by a force that my reason cannot account for. My boyhood was, in some manner, bound up with this Godfrey’s fate. I was fatherless when he died! could he have been my father? This thought continually recurs to me! Such a discovery would be of great value to me just now; the question of legitimacy would be easily got over, as I seek for none of the benefits of succession. I only want what will satisfy the Sacred College. My dear Michel, I commit all this to your care and industry; give me your aid and your advice. Should it happen that Dalton was involved in the affair, the secret might have its value. This old field- marshal’s pride of name and family could be turned to good account. “I must tell you that since I have overheard this boy’s ravings, I have studiously avoided introducing my Irish protégé into the sickroom. My friend, Paul Meekins, might be a most inconvenient confidant, and so I shall keep him under my own eye till some opportunity occurs to dispose of him. He tells me that his present tastes are all ecclesiastical. Do you want a sacristan? if so, he would be your man. There is no such trusty subordinate as the fellow with what the French call ‘a dark antecedent;’ and this I suspect to be his case. “I have well wearied you, my dear friend, and yet have I not told you half of what I feel on this strange matter. I am little given to tremble at shadows, and still there are terrors over me that I cannot shake off. Write to me, then, at once; tell me all that you see, all that you can hear. Observe well the localities; it will be curious if the boy be correct. Mark particularly if there be a spot of rising ground from which the garden is visible, and the windows that look into it, and see if there be a door out of the garden at this point. I could almost map out the scene from his description. “I have done, and now, I scarcely know whether I should feel more relief of heart to know that all this youth has said were fever wanderings, or words of solemn meaning. It is strange how tranquilly I can move through the great events of life, and yet how much a thing like this can shake my nerve; but I suppose it is ever so, and that we are great or little as the occasion makes us. “I have just heard that Lady Hester Onslow has gone over to Ireland. She will probably be at Corrig-O’Neal. If so, you can present yourself to her as my old and intimate friend, and this will afford you an opportunity of examining the scene at leisure. I enclose you a few lines to serve as an introduction. Adieu, my dear friend. “You have often sighed over the obscurity of your position, and the unambitious life of a parish priest. Believe me, and from my heart I say it, I would willingly exchange all the rewards I have won, all that I could ever hope to win, for one week – one short week – of such calm quiet as breathes under the thatched roof of your little cottage. “I leave this for Vienna to-morrow, to thank the minister; and with good reason, too, since without his assistance the Pope would have shrunk from the bold policy. Thence I go to Rome; but within a fortnight I shall be back in Florence, where I hope to hear from you. If all goes well, we shall meet soon. – Yours, in much affection, Mathew D’Esmonde.”