Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that
mansion, with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which,
in the minds of its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely
identified? He was pale, attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that so
soon it had become necessary to renew the life-blood in his veins in the
awful manner which it is supposed the vampyre brood are compelled to
protract their miserable existence? It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more
he could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl,
who he had already made so irretrievably wretched. He leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes
seemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that was
around, and to shine with preternatural intensity. "I must, I will," he said, "be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come
to that. I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will have
it; and then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick and
stone by stone, I will discover that hidden secret which no one but
myself now dreams of. It shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by
despair, I care not which; the end shall sanctify all means. Ay, even if
I wade through blood to my desire, I say it shall be done." There was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance
with the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily
gathering power in the breast of that fearful man. Not the least sound
came from Bannerworth Hall, and it was only occasionally that from afar
off on the night air there came the bark of some watchdog, or the low of
distant cattle. All else was mute save when the deep sepulchral tones of
that man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft air around him. With a strolling movement as if he were careless if he proceeded in that
direction or not, he still went onward toward the house, and now he
stood by that little summer-house once so sweet and so dear a retreat,
in which the heart-stricken Flora had held her interview with him whom
she loved with a devotion unknown to meaner minds. This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was
it among evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very
wilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered
down in wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties. In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. The
mingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise. But oh, how sadly at variance with that beauty and contentedness of
nature was he who stood amidst such beauty! All incapable as he was of
appreciating its tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from its
glory. "Why am I here?" he said. "Here, without fixed design or stability of
purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within
the bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be able
to bring them to the light of day. I hover around this spot which I
feel--which I know--contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands
upon it, or exult in its glistening beauty." Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a
faint footstep upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step,
that, in the light of day, the very hum of summer insects would have
drowned the noise; but he heard it, that man of crime--of unholy and
awful impulses. He heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs and
flowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world of
fragrant essences. Was it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or
unknown? or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of
those now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that
death which, vampyre though he might be, he was yet susceptible of from
mortal hands? The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart
beat against the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, a
circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the
disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man to
his house, whose presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions. Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated
fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or
of treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom of
movement of its owner. The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it
cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so
that although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused
brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not so
dancing, and confused the one with the other. He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and
then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a
female form that was slowly advancing towards him. His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of
it, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought,
probably one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly have
brought her to such a spot at such a time, restrained him, and he was
quiet. But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora
Bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that with
the knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment would
more than fully equal his; and when we come to consider, that since that
eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been so violated by
that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that she
could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour. Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibility
that she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind
with a shuddering consciousness of its probability? Had she no
reflection that each step she took, was taking her further and further
from those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not, for
she walked onward, unheeding, and apparently unthinking of the presence,
possible or probable, of that bane of her existence. But let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she moves
along; there seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a strange
and gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that
ancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of
suffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her,
and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to
her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection,
which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose fate there now
hung so great a mystery. Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the
strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which it has
been subjected?