VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE; OR, THE FEAST OF BLOOD. CHAPTER CCXIII. [sic] [Chapter 230] VARNEY GIVES SOME PERSONAL ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. Never had Mr. Bevan in all his recollection been in such a state of hesitation as now. He was a man usually of rapid resolves, and very energetic action; but the circumstances that had recently taken place were of so very remarkable a nature, that he was not able to bring to bear upon them any [po]rtion of his past experience. He felt that he could come to no determination, but was compelled by the irresistible force of events to be a spectator instead of an actor in what might ensue. "I shall hear," he thought, "if any such event happens at Naples as that to which Varney has adverted, and until I do so, or until a sufficient length of time has elapsed to make me feel certain that he will not plunge into that burning abyss, I shall be a prey to every kind of fear; and then again as regards Sir George Crofton. What am I to say to him? Shall I show him this note or not?" Even that was a question which he could not absolutely decide in his own mind, although he was strongly inclined to think that it would be highly desirable to do so, and while he was considering the point, and holding the note in his hand, his eye fell upon the other papers which had been enclosed with it, and addressed to him. Hoping and expecting that there he should find something that would better qualify him to come to an accurate conclusion, he took up the packet, and found that the topmost paper bore the following endorsement: -- "SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING MY OWN LIFE." "There, then," said Mr. Bevan, "is [w]hat he has promised me." It was to be expected that Mr. Bevan should take up those papers with a very considerable amount of curiosity, and as he could not think what course immediately to pursue that would do good to Varney or anybody else, he thought he had better turn his attention at once to the documents that the vampyre had left to his perusal. Telling his servant, then, not to allow him to be disturbed unless the affair was a very urgent one indeed, he closed the door of his study, and commenced reading one of the most singular statements that ever created being placed upon paper. It was as follows: -- * * * * * During my brief intercourse -- and it has always been brief when of a confidential nature with various persons -- I have created surprise by talking of individuals and events long since swallowed up in the almost forgotten past. In these few pages I declare myself more fully. In the reign of the First Charles, I resided in a narrow street, in the immediate neighbourhood of Whitehall. It was a straggling, tortuous thoroughfare, going down to the Thames; it matters little what were my means of livelihood, but I have no hesitation in saying that I was a well-paid agent in some of the political movements which graced and disgraced that period. London was then a mass of mean-looking houses; with here and there one that looked like a palace, compared with its humbler neighbours. Almost every street appeared to be under the protection of some great house situated somewhere in its extent, but such of those houses as have survived the wreck of time rank now with their neighbours, and are so strangely altered, that I, who knew many of them well, could now scarcely point to the place where they used to stand. I took no prominent part in the commotions of that period, but I saw the head of a king held up in its gore at Whitehall as a spectacle for the multitude. There were thousands of persons in England who had aided to bring about that result, but who were very far from expecting it, and who were the first to fall under the ban of the gigantic power they had themselves raised. Among these were many of my employers; men, who had been quite willing to shake the stability of a throne so far as the individual occupying it was concerned; but who certainly never contemplated the destruction of monarchy; so the death of the First Charles, and the dictatorship of Cromwell, made royalists in abundance. They had raised a spirit they could not quell again, and this was a fact which the stern, harsh man, Cromwell, with whom I had many interviews, was aware of. My house was admirably adapted for the purposes of secrecy and seclusion, and I became a thriving man from the large sums I received for aiding the escape of distinguished loyalists, some of whom lay for a considerable time _perdu_ at my house, before an eligible opportunity arrived of dropping down the river quietly to some vessel which would take them to Holland. It was to offer me so much per head for these royalists that Cromwell sent for me, and there was one in particular who had been private secretary to the Duke of Cleveland, a young man merely, of neither family nor rank, but of great ability, whom Cromwell was exceedingly anxious to capture. I think there likewise must have been some private reasons which induced the dictator of the Commonwealth to be so anxious concerning this Master Francis Latham, which was the name of the person alluded to. It was late one evening when a stranger came to my house, and having desired to see me, was shown into a private apartment, when I immediately waited upon him. "I am aware," he said, "that you have been confidentially employed by the Duke of Cleveland, and I am aware that you have been very useful to distressed loyalists, but in aiding Master Francis Latham, the duke's secretary, you will be permitted almost to name your own terms." I named a hundred pounds, which at that time was a much larger sum than now, taking into consideration the relative value. One half of it was paid to me at once, and the other promised within four-and-twenty hours after Latham had effected his escape. I was told that at half-past twelve o'clock that night, a man dressed in common working apparel, and with a broom over his shoulder would knock at my door and ask if he could be recommended to a lodging, and that by those tokens I should know him to be Francis Latham. A Dutch lugger, I was further told, was lying near Gravesend, on board of which, to earn my money, I was expected to place the fugitive. All this was duly agreed upon; I had a boat in readiness, with a couple of watermen upon whom I could depend, and I was far from anticipating any extraordinary difficulties in carrying out the enterprise. I had a son about twelve years of age, who being a sharp acute lad, I found very useful upon several occasions, and I never scrupled to make him acquainted with any such affair as this that I am recounting. Half-past twelve o'clock came, and in a very few minutes after that period of time there came a knock at my door, which my son answered, and according to arrangement, there was the person with a broom, who asked to be recommended to a lodging, and who was immediately requested to walk in. He seemed rather nervous, and asked me if I thought there was much risk. "No," said I, "no more than ordinary risk in all these cases, but we must wait half an hour 'till the tide turns. For just now to struggle against it down the river would really be nothing else but courting observation." To this he perfectly agreed, and sat down by my fireside. I was as anxious as he to get the affair over, for it was a ticklish job, and Oliver Cromwell, if he had brought anything of the kind exactly home to me, would as life order me to be shot as he would have taken his luncheon in the name of the Lord. I accordingly went down to the water-side to speak to the men who were lying there with the boat, and had ascertained from them that in about twenty minutes the tide would begin to ebb in the centre of the stream, when two men confronted me. Practised as I was in the habits and appearances of the times, I guessed at once who they were. In fact, a couple of Oliver Cromwell's dismounted dragoons were always well known. "You are wanted," said one of them to [me."] "Yes, you are particularly wanted," said the other. "But, gentlemen, I am rather busy," said I. "In an hour's time I will do myself the pleasure, if you please, of waiting upon you anywhere you wish to name." The only reply they made to this was the practical one, of getting on each side of me, and then hurrying me on, past my own door. I was taken right away to St. James's at a rapid pace, being hurried through one of the court yards; we paused at a small door, at which was a sentinel. My two guides communicated something to him, and he allowed us to pass. There was a narrow passage without any light, and through another door, at which was likewise a sentinel, who turned the glare of a lantern upon me and my conductors. Some short explanation was given to him likewise, during which I heard the words His Highness, which was the title which Cromwell had lately assumed. They pushed me through this doorway, closed it behind me, and left me alone in the dark. -+- Next Time: A Singular Interview, and the Consequences of Passion. +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+ | This Varney the Vampyre e-text was entered by members of the | | Science Fiction Round Table #1 (SFRT1) on the Genie online | | service. | | The Varney Project, a reincarnation of this "penny dreadful" bit | | of fiction, was begun in November of 1993 by James Macdonald and | | should take about four years for re-serialization. | | These chapters are being posted once a week to the Round Table | | Bulletin Board and are also being placed in the Round Table File | | Library. | | For further information concerning Varney e-texts, please send | | email to: | | h.liu@juno.com | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+ ============================================================================== The Varney Project Chapter 230 Ver 1.00 05/26/1998 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ General notes on this chapter Source: H.Liu entry from the Arno edition, 1970, text is reprint of 1847 edition Drop capital: No Figures in source: 0 Page numbers in source: 853-855 Sections: 2 Approximate number of characters: Number of paragraphs: Comments: Chapter appears mis-numbered as CCXIII. Mr. Bevan was at a bit of loss as to what to do next concerning Varney and Sir Charles. He finally decided to do nothing at the moment. If Varney were to carry out his act of self-destruction in Naples, Mr. Bevan figured he would hear of it. But if he heard nothing, then he would really not know what to say to Sir George. Mr. Bevan then sees the other papers that Varney left for him and decides that reading these might give him more insight. Varney's writings begin by saying that he would now give more details of himself and his past. His story begins in the time of Charles I, and the rebellion against the monarchy that lead to the dictatorship of Oliver Cromwell. Varney lived in a house near the Thames river and made a living in some unspecified way as a servant of the various political factions of the time. After the monarchy was destroyed, and the tyranny of Cromwell established, a royalist movement formed. Many of these royalists wanted to escape from England to Holland, and Varney served them by smuggling them, for a fee, down the river to waiting ships. Varney also mentions his son, a boy of twelve, as he recounts the plan to smuggle out one Master Francis Latham, a private secretary to the Duke of Cleveland. The royalist was hiding in Varney's house and they were waiting for the tide to change. Varney goes to check with the watermen who will ferry the man away, but as he returns, two men, dragoons of Cromwell, take him into custody, telling him that he is wanted. He is taken to St. James's palace, where he hears talk addressed to Cromwell himself, and then Varney finds himself left alone in a dark room. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Modification History Version Date Who What changes made -------- -------- ------------- ---------------------------------- 1.00 05/26/1998 H.Liu Initial gold version, rough proof read. ==================================End of File=================================