"The daylight is coming quickly on," said Henry; "I shall keep my sacred
promise of not moving from this room until Flora awakens; but there can
be no occasion for the detention of any of you. One is sufficient here. Go all of you, and endeavour to procure what rest you can." "I will fetch you my powder-flask and bullets," said Mr. Marchdale; "and
you can, if you please, reload the pistols. In about two hours more it
will be broad daylight." This arrangement was adopted. Henry did reload the pistols, and placed
them on a table by the side of the bed, ready for immediate action, and
then, as Flora was sleeping soundly, all left the room but himself. Mrs. Bannerworth was the last to do so. She would have remained, but for
the earnest solicitation of Henry, that she would endeavour to get some
sleep to make up for her broken night's repose, and she was indeed so
broken down by her alarm on Flora's account, that she had not power to
resist, but with tears flowing from her eyes, she sought her own
chamber. And now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that evil-fated
mansion; and although no one really slept but Flora, all were still. Busy thought kept every one else wakeful. It was a mockery to lie down
at all, and Henry, full of strange and painful feelings as he was,
preferred his present position to the anxiety and apprehension on
Flora's account which he knew he should feel if she were not within the
sphere of his own observation, and she slept as soundly as some gentle
infant tired of its playmates and its sports. CHAPTER IV. THE MORNING.--THE CONSULTATION.--THE FEARFUL SUGGESTION. [Illustration]

What wonderfully different impressions and feelings, with regard to the
same circumstances, come across the mind in the broad, clear, and
beautiful light of day to what haunt the imagination, and often render
the judgment almost incapable of action, when the heavy shadow of night
is upon all things. There must be a downright physical reason for this effect--it is so
remarkable and so universal. It seems that the sun's rays so completely
alter and modify the constitution of the atmosphere, that it produces,
as we inhale it, a wonderfully different effect upon the nerves of the
human subject. We can account for this phenomenon in no other way. Perhaps never in his
life had he, Henry Bannerworth, felt so strongly this transition of
feeling as he now felt it, when the beautiful daylight gradually dawned
upon him, as he kept his lonely watch by the bedside of his slumbering
sister. That watch had been a perfectly undisturbed one. Not the least sight or
sound of any intrusion had reached his senses. All had been as still as
the very grave. And yet while the night lasted, and he was more indebted to the rays of
the candle, which he had placed upon a shelf, for the power to
distinguish objects than to the light of the morning, a thousand uneasy
and strange sensations had found a home in his agitated bosom. He looked so many times at the portrait which was in the panel that at
length he felt an undefined sensation of terror creep over him whenever
he took his eyes off it. He tried to keep himself from looking at it, but he found it vain, so he
adopted what, perhaps, was certainly the wisest, best plan, namely, to
look at it continually. He shifted his chair so that he could gaze upon it without any effort,
and he placed the candle so that a faint light was thrown upon it, and
there he sat, a prey to many conflicting and uncomfortable feelings,
until the daylight began to make the candle flame look dull and sickly. Solution for the events of the night he could find none. He racked his
imagination in vain to find some means, however vague, of endeavouring
to account for what occurred, and still he was at fault. All was to him
wrapped in the gloom of the most profound mystery. And how strangely, too, the eyes of that portrait appeared to look upon
him--as if instinct with life, and as if the head to which they belonged
was busy in endeavouring to find out the secret communings of his soul. It was wonderfully well executed that portrait; so life-like, that the
very features seemed to move as you gazed upon them. "It shall be removed," said Henry. "I would remove it now, but that it
seems absolutely painted on the panel, and I should awake Flora in any
attempt to do so." He arose and ascertained that such was the case, and that it would
require a workman, with proper tools adapted to the job, to remove the
portrait. "True," he said, "I might now destroy it, but it is a pity to obscure a
work of such rare art as this is; I should blame myself if I were. It
shall be removed to some other room of the house, however." Then, all of a sudden, it struck Henry how foolish it would be to remove
the portrait from the wall of a room which, in all likelihood, after
that night, would be uninhabited; for it was not probable that Flora
would choose again to inhabit a chamber in which she had gone through so
much terror. "It can be left where it is," he said, "and we can fasten up, if we
please, even the very door of this room, so that no one need trouble
themselves any further about it." The morning was now coming fast, and just as Henry thought he would
partially draw a blind across the window, in order to shield from the
direct rays of the sun the eyes of Flora, she awoke. "Help--help!" she cried, and Henry was by her side in a moment. "You are safe, Flora--you are safe," he said. "Where is it now?" she said. "What--what, dear Flora?" "The dreadful apparition. Oh, what have I done to be made thus
perpetually miserable?" "Think no more of it, Flora." "I must think. My brain is on fire! A million of strange eyes seem
gazing on me." "Great Heaven! she raves," said Henry. "Hark--hark--hark! He comes on the wings of the storm. Oh, it is most
horrible--horrible!" Henry rang the bell, but not sufficiently loudly to create any alarm. The sound reached the waking ear of the mother, who in a few moments was
in the room. "She has awakened," said Henry, "and has spoken, but she seems to me to
wander in her discourse. For God's sake, soothe her, and try to bring
her mind round to its usual state." "I will, Henry--I will." "And I think, mother, if you were to get her out of this room, and into
some other chamber as far removed from this one as possible, it would
tend to withdraw her mind from what has occurred." "Yes; it shall be done. Oh, Henry, what was it--what do you think it
was?" "I am lost in a sea of wild conjecture. I can form no conclusion; where
is Mr. Marchdale?" "I believe in his chamber." "Then I will go and consult with him." Henry proceeded at once to the chamber, which was, as he knew, occupied
by Mr. Marchdale; and as he crossed the corridor, he could not but pause
a moment to glance from a window at the face of nature. As is often the case, the terrific storm of the preceding evening had
cleared the air, and rendered it deliciously invigorating and life-like.