Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the
queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that
are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought,
and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of
mind she would have shunned. [Illustration]

Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her
for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had
so recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a
supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we
are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a
few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst,
and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had
lost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven, such is not the
case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence of
some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which have
no home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth
from her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved,
and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever
flowed from human lips. Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so
strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely,
toward that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay
crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis
Varney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who had
destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest
affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the
blessings they should have been to her. Oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with
what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the
shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection
from the fearful vampyre's embrace, and where she would be within hail
of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every thought
of harm. But she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her
garment touched the face of Sir Francis Varney. And he was terrified--he dared not move--he dared not speak! The idea
that she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some
terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed
with fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak. It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his
coward heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her
home; but unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon that
rustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her to his
heart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure affection
came across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents, she
said,--

"Charles! Charles! and do you love me still? No--no; you have not
forsaken me. Save me, save me from the vampyre!" She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping. "Fool that I am," he muttered, "to be so terrified. She sleeps. This is
one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. She
sleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing
the dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too
terrible a dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, they
will all go. It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want. A
house, too, with such an evil reputation, that none but myself, who have
created that reputation, will venture within its walls:--a house, which
superstition will point out as the abode of evil spirits;--a house, as
it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre. Yes, it shall be my
own; fit dwelling-place for a while for me. I have sworn it shall be
mine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I have to do with vows." He rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house; a
movement he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic
seat, on which she sat, was at its further extremity. And there he
stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon
the now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in
that trance of sleep in which she really was, one glance upward would
let her see the hideous companion she had, in that once much-loved
spot--a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but now
doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of despair. But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were over
her face, and she was weeping still. "Surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he
does not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look upon
his face, a Heaven to me! Charles! Charles! you will come again? Surely,
they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love
me not!" "Ha!" muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong
hold on her young heart--she loves him--but what are human affections to
me? I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of
humanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it. I love no one, expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a
slave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts,
shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quite
sincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad--perchance she may
be." There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face,
as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE THREAT.--ITS CONSEQUENCES.--THE RESCUE, AND SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S
DANGER. [Illustration]

Sir Francis Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to
gloat over the helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to
make his victim; there was no look of pity in his face, no one touch of
human kindness could be found in the whole expression of those
diabolical features; and if he delayed making the attempt to strike
terror into the heart of that unhappy, but beautiful being, it could not
be from any relenting feeling, but simply, that he wished for a few
moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of perfecting his
villany more effectually. Alas! and they who would have flown to her rescue,--they, who for her
would have chanced all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping,
and knew not of the loved one's danger. She was alone, and far enough
from the house, to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity ends,
and the dream of madness, with all its terrors, commences.