CURIOUS SECRETS.
"And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontent
I'll read your matter deep and dangerous."
1. HENRY IV., Act 1., sc. 3.
"The Depository of the Secrets of all the World" was the inscription
over one of the brazen portals of Fakreddin's valley, reminding us of
what Ossian said to Oscar, when he resigned to him the command of the
morrow's battle, "Be thine the secret hill to-night," referring to the
Gaelic custom of the commander of an army retiring to a secret hill
the night before a battle to hold communion with the ghosts of
departed heroes. But, as it has been often remarked of secrets--both
political and social--they are only too frequently made to be
revealed, a truth illustrative of Ben Jonson's words in "The Case is
Unaltered "--
A secret in his mouth
Is like a wild bird put into a cage,
Whose door no sooner opens but 'tis out.
In family history, some of the strangest secrets have related to
concealment of birth, many a fraud having been devised to alter or
perpetuate the line of issue. Early in the present century, a romantic
story which was the subject of conversation in the circles both of
London and Paris, related to Lady Newborough, who had always
considered herself the daughter of Lorenzo Chiappini, formerly gaoler
of Modigliana, and subsequently constable at Florence, and of his wife
Vincenzia Diligenti. Possessed in her girlhood of fascinating
appearance and charming manners, she came out as a ballet dancer at
the principal opera at Florence, and one night she so impressed Lord
Newborough that, by means of a golden bribe, he had her transferred
from the stage to his residence. His conduct towards her was tender
and affectionate, and, in spite of the disparity of years, he
afterwards married her, introducing her to the London world as Lady
Newborough.
Some time after her marriage, according to a memoir stated to be
written by the fair claimant of the House of Orleans, and printed in
Paris before the Revolution of 1830 but immediately suppressed, when
staying at Sienna she received a posthumous letter from her supposed
father, which, from its extraordinary disclosures, threw her into
complete bewilderment.[31] It ran as follows:
MY LADY,--I have at length reached the term of my days without
having revealed to anyone a secret which directly concerns me and
yourself. The secret is this:
On the day when you were born, of a person whom I cannot name and
who now is in the other world, a male child of mine was also
born. I was requested to make an exchange; and, considering the
state of my finances in those days, I accepted to the
often-repeated and advantageous proposals, and at that time I
adopted you as my daughter in the same manner as my son was
adopted by the other party.
I observe that heaven has repaired my faults by placing you in
better circumstances than your father, although his rank was
somewhat similar. This enables me to end my days with some
comfort.
Let this serve to extenuate my culpability towards you. I entreat
your pardon for my fault. I desire you, if you please, to keep
this transaction secret, in order that the world shall not have
any opportunity to speak of an affair which is now without
remedy.
This, my letter, you will not receive until after my death.
LORENZO CHIAPPINI.
After receiving this letter, Lady Newborough sent for Ringrezzi, the
confessor of the late gaoler, and Fabroni, a confessor of the late
Countess Borghi, and was told by the former that, in his opinion, she
was the daughter of the Grand Duke Leopold; but the latter disagreed,
saying, "Myladi is the daughter of a French lord called Count
Joinville, who had considerable property in Champagne; and I entertain
no doubt that if your ladyship were to go to that province you would
there find valuable documents, which I have been told were there left
in the hands of a respectable ecclesiastic."
It is further stated that two old sisters of the name of Bandini, who
had been born and educated in the house of the Borghis, and been
during all their life in the service of that family, informed Lady
Newborough, and afterwards in the Ecclesiastical Court of Faenza, that
in the year 1773 they followed their master and mistress to
Modigliana, where the latter usually had their summer residence in a
chateau belonging to them; that, arriving there, they found a French
count, Louis Joinville, and his countess, established in the Pretorial
Palace. They further affirmed that between the Borghis and this family
a very intimate intercourse was soon established and that they daily
interchanged visits.
Furthermore, the foreign lord, it is said, was extremely familiar with
persons of the lowest rank, and particularly with the gaoler,
Chiappini, who lived under the same roof. The wives of both were
pregnant; and it appeared that they expected their delivery much about
the same time. But the Count was tormented with a grievous anxiety;
his wife had as yet had no male offspring, and he much feared that
they would never be blessed with any. Having communicated his project
to the Borghis, he at length made an overture to the gaoler, telling
him he apprehended the loss of a very great inheritance, which
absolutely depended on the birth of a son, and that he was disposed,
in case the Countess gave birth to a daughter, to exchange her for a
boy, and that for this exchange he would liberally recompense the
father. The man, highly pleased at finding his fortune thus
unexpectedly made, immediately accepted the offer, and the bargain
was concluded.
Immediately after the accouchment of the ladies, one of the Bandinis
went to the Pretorial Palace to see the new-born babies, when some
women in the house told her that the exchange had already taken place;
and Chappiani himself being present, confirmed their statement. But as
there were several persons in the secret--however solemnly secrecy had
been promised--public rumour soon accused the barterers. The Count
Louis, fearing the people's indignation, concealed himself in the
Convent of St. Bernard, at Brisighella.
The lady, it is added, departed with her suppositious son; her own
daughter being baptized and called Maria Stella Petronilla, and
designated as the daughter of Lorenzo Chappiani and Vincenzia
Diligenti.
Having learnt so much, Lady Newborough being in Paris in the year
1823, had recourse to a stratagem by which she expected to gain
additional information. Accordingly she inserted in the newspapers,
"that she had been desired by the Countess Pompeo Borghi to discover
in France a Count Louis Joinville, who in the year 1773 was with his
Countess at Modigliana, where the latter gave birth to a son on the
16th April, and that if either of these persons were still alive, or
the child born at Modigliana, she was empowered to communicate to them
something of the highest importance.
Subsequently to this advertisement, she was waited upon by a Colonel
Joinville, but he derived his title only from Louis XVIII. But before
the Colonel was out of the door, she had a call from the Abbé de
Saint-Fare, whom she gave to understand that she was anxious to
discover the identity of a birth connected with the sojourn with the
late Comte de Joinville. In the course of conversation, this Abbé is
stated to have made most injudicious admissions, from which Lady
Newborough gathered that he was the confidential agent of the Duke of
Orleans, being currently said to be his illegitimate brother.
Lady Newborough was now convinced in her own mind that she was the
eldest child of the late Duke of Orleans, and hence was the first
princess of the blood of France, and the rightful heiress of immense
wealth. But this discovery brought her no happiness, and subjected to
her to much discomfort and misery. Her story--whether true or
false--will in all probability remain a mystery to the end of time,
being one of those political puzzles which must remain an open
question.
Secret intrigue, however, at one time or another, has devised the most
subtle plans for supplanting the rightful owner out of his
birthright--a second wife through jealously entering into some
shameful compact to defraud her husband's child by his former wife of
his property in favour of her own. Such a secret conspiracy is
connected with Draycot, and, although it has been said to be one of
the most mysterious in the whole range of English legends, yet,
singular as the story may be, writes Sir Bernard Burke, "no small
portion of it is upon record as a thing not to be questioned; and it
is not necessary to believe in supernatural agency to give all parties
credit for having faithfully narrated their impressions." The main
facts of this strange story are briefly told: Walter Long of Draycot
had two wives, the second being Catherine, daughter of Sir John
Thynne, of Longleat. On their arrival at Draycot after the honeymoon,
there were great rejoicings into which all entered save the heir of
the houses of Draycot and Wraxhall, who was silent and sad. Once
arrived in her new home, the mistress of Draycot lost no time in
studying the character of her step-son, for she had an object in view
which made it necessary that she should completely understand his
character. Her design was, in short, that the young master of Draycot,
"the heir of all his father's property--the obstruction in the way of
whatever children there might be by the second marriage--must be
ruined, or at any rate so disgraced as to provoke his father to
disinherit him." Taking into her confidence her brother, Sir Egremont
Thynne, of Longleat, with his help she soon discovered that the
youthful heir of Draycot was fond of wine and dice, and that he had on
more than one occasion met with his father's displeasure for
indulgence in such acts of dissipation. Having learnt, too, that the
young man was kept on short supplies by his parsimonious father, and
had often complained that he was not allowed sufficient pocket-money
for the bare expenses of his daily life; the crafty step-mother seized
this opportunity for carrying out her treacherous and dishonourable
conduct. Commiserating with the inexperienced youth in his want of
money, and making him feel more than ever dissatisfied at his father's
meanness to him, she quickly enlisted him on her side, especially when
she gave him liberal supplies of money, and recommended him to enjoy
his life whilst it was in his power to do so.
With a full rather than an empty purse, the young squire was soon seen
with a cheerful party over the wine bottle, and, at another time, with
a gambling group gathered round the dice box. But this kind of thing
suited admirably his step-mother, for she took good care that such
excesses were brought under the notice of the lad's father, and
magnified into heinous crimes. From time to time this unprincipled
woman kept supplying the unsuspecting youth with money, and did all in
her power to encourage him in his tastes for reckless living. Fresh
stories of his son's dissipated conduct were continually being told to
the master of Draycot, until at last, "influenced by the wiles of his
charming wife, on the other by deeper wiles of his brother-in-law, he
agreed to make out a will disinheriting his son by his first wife, and
settling all his possessions on his second wife and her relations."
Hitherto, the secret entered into by brother and sister had been a
perfect success, for not only was the son completely alienated from
his father, but the latter deemed it a sin to make any provision for
one who was given to drink and gambling. A draft will was drawn up by
Sir Egremont Thynne, and when approved of was ordered to be copied by
a clerk. But here comes the remarkable part of the tale. The work of
engrossing demands a clear, bright light, and the slightest shadow
intervening between the light and the parchment would be sure to
interrupt operations. Such an interruption the clerk was suddenly?
subjected to, when, "on looking up he beheld a white hand--a lady's
delicate white hand--so placed between the light and the deed as to
obscure the spot on which he was engaged. The unaccountable hand,
however, was gone almost as soon as noticed." The clerk concluding
that this was some optical delusion, proceeded with his work, and had
come to the clause wherein the Master of Draycot disinherited his son,
when again the same ghostly hand was thrust between the light and the
parchment.
Terrified at this unearthly intervention, the clerk awoke Sir Egremont
from his midnight slumbers, and told him what had occurred, adding
that the spectre hand was no other than that of the first wife of the
master of Draycot, who resented the cruel wrong done to her son. In
due time the deed was engrossed by another clerk, and duly signed and
sealed.
But the "white hand" had not appeared in vain, for the clerk's curious
adventure afterwards became the topic of general conversation, and the
injustice done to the disinherited heir of Draycot excited so much
sympathetic indignation that "the trustees of the late Lady Long
arrested the old knight's corpse at the church door, her nearest
relations commenced a suit against the intended heir, and the result
was a compromise between the parties, John Long taking possession of
Wroxhall, while his other half-brother was allowed to retain Draycot,"
a settlement that, it is said, explains the division of the two
estates, which we find at the present day. The secret between the
brother and sister was well kept, and whatever explanation may be
given to the "white hand," the story is as singular as any in the
annals of domestic history.
It was the betrayal of a secret, on the other hand, on the part of a
woman that is traditionally said to have caused the sudden and tragic
death of Richard, second Earl of Scarborough. This nobleman, it seems,
was in the confidence of the King, and had been entrusted by him with
the keeping of a most important secret. But, like most favourites, the
Earl was surrounded by enemies who were ever on the alert to compass
his ruin, and, amidst other devices, they laid their plans to prevail
on the unsuspecting Earl to betray the confidence which the King had
implicitly reposed on him. Finding it, however, impossible by this
means to make him guilty of a breach of trust towards the King, they
had recourse to another scheme which proved successful, and thereby
irrevocably compromised him in the King's eyes.
Having discovered that the Earl was in love with a certain lady and
was in the habit of frequently visiting her, some of his enemies
discovered where she lived, and, calling on her, promised an exceeding
rich reward if she could draw the royal secret from her lover, and
communicate it to them. Easily bought over by the offer of so rich a
bribe, the treacherous woman, like Delilah of old, soon prevailed upon
the Earl to give her the desired information, and the secret was
revealed. As soon as the Earl's enemies were apprised of the same,
they lost no time in hurrying to the king, and submitting to him the
proofs of his protégé's imprudence. They gained their end, for the
next time the Earl came into the royal presence, the King said to him
in a sad but firm voice, "Lumley, you have lost a friend, and I a good
servant." This was a bitter shock to the Earl, for he learnt now for
the first time that she in whom he had reposed his love and faith had
been his worst enemy, and that, as far as his relations to the King
were concerned, he was disgraced as a man of honour in his estimation.
With his proud and haughty spirit, unable to bear the misery and
chagrin of his fall and ruin, he had recourse to the suicide's escape
from trouble--he shot himself.
But another secret, no less tragic and of a far more sensational
nature, related to a certain Mr. Macfarlane. One Sunday, in the autumn
of the year 1719, Sir John Swinton, of Swinton, in Berwickshire, left
his little daughter Margaret, who had been indisposed through a
childish ailment, at home when he went with the rest of his family to
church, taking care to lock the outer door. After the lapse of an hour
or so, the child had become dull through being alone, and she made her
way into the parlour below stairs, where, on her arrival, she hastily
bolted the door to keep out any ghost or bogie, stories relating to
which had oftentimes excited her fears. But great was her terror when,
on looking round, she was confronted by a tall lady, gracefully
attired, and possessed of remarkable handsome features. The poor child
stood motionless with terror, afraid to go forwards or backwards. Her
throbbing heart, however, quickly recovered from its fright, as the
mysterious lady, with a kind eye and sweet smile, addressed her by
name, and taking her hand, spoke:
"Margaret, you may tell your mother what you have seen, but, for your
life, to no one else. If you do, much evil may come of it, some of
which will fall on yourself. You are young, but you must promise to
be silent as the grave itself in this matter."
Full of childish wonderment, Margaret, half in shyness and half in
fear at being an agent in so strange a secret, turned her head towards
the window, but on turning round found the lady had disappeared,
although the door remained bolted. Her curiosity was now more than
before aroused, and she concluded that after all this lady must be one
of those fairies she had often read of in books; and it was whilst
pondering on what she had seen that the family returned from church.
Surprised at finding Margaret bolted in this parlour, Sir John learnt
that "she had been frightened, she knew not why, at the solitude of
her own room, and had bolted herself in the parlour." Although she was
soon laughed out of her childish fears, Lady Swinton was quick enough
to perceive that Margaret had not communicated everything, and
insisted upon knowing the whole truth. The child made no objection, as
she had not been told to keep the secret from her mother. After
describing all that happened, Lady Swinton kissed her daughter
tenderly and said, "Since you have kept the secret so well, you shall
know something more of this strange lady."
Thereupon Lady Swinton pushed aside one of the oaken panels in the
parlour, which revealed a small room beyond, where sat the mysterious
lady. "And now, Margaret dear," said her mother, "listen to me. This
lady is persecuted by cruel men, who, if they find her, will certainly
take her life. She is my guest, she is now yours, and I am sure I need
not tell you the meanest peasant in all Scotland would shame to betray
his guest."
Margaret promised to keep the secret, never evincing the slightest
curiosity to know who the lady was, and it is said she had reached her
twentieth year when one day the adventure of her childhood was
explained. It seems that the lady in question was a Mrs. Macfarlane,
daughter of Colonel Charles Straiton, a zealous Jacobite. When about
nineteen years old she married John Macfarlane--law agent of Simon
Fraser, Lord Lovat--who was many years her senior. Soon after her
marriage Mrs. Macfarlane made the acquaintance of Captain John Cayley,
a commissioner of Customs, and on September 29th, 1716, he called on
her at Edinburgh, when, for reasons only known to herself or him, she
fired two shots at him with a pistol, one of which pierced his heart.
According to Sir Bernard Burke, it was when she would not yield to
Captain Cayley's immoral overtures that the latter vowed to blacken
her character, a threat which he so successfully carried out "that not
one of her female acquaintances upon whom she called would admit her;
not one of all she met in the street would acknowledge her." Desperate
at this villainy on his part, Mrs. Macfarlane, under pretence of
agreeing to Captain Cayley's overtures, sent for him, when fully
confident that he was about to reap the fruit of his infamous daring
he obeyed her summons. But no sooner had he entered the room than she
locked the door, and, snatching up a brace of pistols, she exclaimed:
"Wretch, you have blasted the reputation of a woman who never did you
the slightest wrong. You have fixed an indelible stain upon the child
at her bosom; and all this because, coward as you are, you thought
there was no one to take her part." At the same time, it is said, she
fired two shots at him with a pistol, one of which pierced his heart.
Her husband asserted, however, that she fired to save herself from
outrage, an explanation which she affirmed was "only too true." Her
husband also declared that his wife was desirous of sending for a
magistrate and of telling him the whole story, but that he advised her
against it. But not appearing to stand her trial in the ensuing
February, she was outlawed, and obtained refuge in the mansion house
of the Swinton family in the concealed apartment already
described.[32] According to Sir Walter Scott, she "returned and lived
and died in Edinbugh"; but her life must have been comparatively
short, as her husband married again on October 6th, 1719.
Akin to this dramatic episode may be mentioned one concerning Robert
Perceval, the second son of the Right Hon. Sir John Perceval, when
reading for the law in his chambers in Lincoln's Inn. The clock had
just struck the hour of midnight, when, on looking up from his book,
he was astonished to see a figure standing between himself and the
door, completely muffled up in a long cloak so as to defy recognition.
"Who are you?" But the figure made no answer.
"What do you want?" No reply.
The figure stood motionless. Thinking it made a low hollow laugh, the
young student struck at the intruder with his sword, but the weapon
met with no resistance, and not a single drop of blood stained it.
This was amazing, and still no answer. Determined to solve the mystery
of this strange being, he cast aside its cloak, when lo! "he saw his
own apparition, bloody and ghostly, whereat he was so astonished that
he immediately swooned away, but, recovering, he saw the spectre
depart."
At first this occurrence left the most unpleasant impressions on his
mind, but as days passed by without anything happening, the warning,
or whatever it was, faded gradually from his memory, and he lived as
before, drinking and quarrelling, managing to embroil himself at play
with the celebrated Beau Fielding. The day at last came, however,
when his equanimity was disturbed, for, as he was walking from his
chambers in Lincoln's Inn to a favourite tavern in the Strand, he
imagined that he was followed by an ungainly looking man. He tried to
avoid him, but the man followed on, and after a time, fully convinced
that he was dogged by this man, he demanded "Who he was, and why he
followed him?"
[Illustration: THE FIGURE STOOD MOTIONLESS.]
But the man replied, "I am not following you; I'm following my own
business."
By no means satisfied, young Perceval crossed over to the opposite
side of the street, but the man followed him step by step, and before
many minutes had elapsed he was joined by another man as
ungainly-looking as himself. Perceval, no longer doubting that he was
followed, called upon the two men to retire at their peril, and
although he succeeded in making them take to their heels after a sharp
sword skirmish, he was himself wounded in the leg, and made his way to
the nearest tavern. This unpleasant encounter, reviving the memory of
the ghastly figure he had seen in his chambers, made him feel that he
was a doomed man, and he was not far wrong, for that night near the
so-called May-pole in the Strand he was found dead--but how he died
was a secret never divulged.
Another equally strange incident connected with this mysterious crime
happened to a Mrs. Brown, "perhaps from her holding some situation in
the family of his uncle, Sir Robert." On this fatal night, writes Sir
Bernard Burke, she dreamt that one Mrs. Shearman--the housekeeper--came
to her and asked for a sheet.
She demanded, "for what purpose," to which Mrs. Shearman replied,
"Poor Master Robert is killed, and it is to wind him in."
Curious to say, in the morning Mrs. Shearman came at an early hour
into her room, and asked for a sheet. For what purpose? inquired Mrs
Brown.
"Poor Mr. Robert is murdered," was the reply; "he lies dead in the
Strand watch-house, and it is to wind his body in."
In the year 1848, the Warwick magistrates investigated a most
extraordinary and preposterous charge of murder against Lord Leigh,
his deceased mother, and persons employed by them, in the course of
which inquiry one of the accusers professed to have been in possession
of a secret connected with the matter for a number of years. The
accusation seems to have originated from the attempt of certain
parties to seize Stoneleigh Abbey on pretence that it rightfully
belonged to them, and not to Lord Leigh. In November, 1844, a mob took
possession of the place for one George Leigh; several of the
ringleaders were tried for the offence, and not fewer than
twenty-eight were convicted. The account of this curious conspiracy,
as given in the "Annual Register," goes on to say that Richard Barnett
made the charge of murder: in 1814 he was employed under Lady Julia
Leigh and her son at the Abbey, where a number of workmen were engaged
in making alterations; four of these men were murdered by large stones
having been allowed to fall on them, and their bodies were placed
within an abutment of a bridge, and then inclosed with masonry.
Another man was shot by Hay, a keeper. In cross-examination, the
witness said he "had kept silence on these atrocities for thirty
years, because he feared Lord Leigh, and because he did not expect to
obtain anything by speaking. He first divulged the secret to those who
were trying to seize the estate; as this information he thought would
help them to get it, for the murders were committed to keep out the
proper owners."
In the course of the inquiry, John Wilcox was required to repeat
evidence which he had given before a Master of Chancery; but, instead
of doing so, the man confessed that he was not sober when he made the
declaration. He further declared how some servants of the Leigh family
had burned pictures, and had been paid to keep "the secrets of the
house." The whole story, however, was a deliberate and wilful
fabrication, the facts were contradicted and circumstantially refuted,
and of course so worthless a charge was dismissed by the Bench.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] See "Annual Register" (1832), 152-5.
[32] This incident suggested to Sir Walter Scott his description of the
concealment and discovery of the Countess of Derby in "Peveril of the
Peak." See "Dictionary of National Biography," xxxv., 74.