The big pews shut him in right and left, so that had he been visible to any one at a distance, it would have seemed as if a head and shoulders were gliding along the church; but there was no one to see him. All the same, though, Moredock could see, and as well as was possible he saw something which made him stop short just half-way between the font and the eagle lectern, to shade his eyes and gaze towards the chancel.
He did not believe in ghosts. He had been night and day in that old church too many hundred times to be scared at anything—at least so he thought. But perhaps owing to the fact that he had been ill, he was ready to be weak and nervous, and hence it was that he stood as if sealed to the spot, gazing at a dimly seen head, draped in long folds like that of the lady on the old mural slab on the south wall by the door. It was grey and dim as that always seemed in its recess, and as it glided along the south aisle it disappeared behind a pillar, all so dimly seen as to be next to invisible, and then reappeared in front of the pulpit, passed through the screen into the chancel, where it was seen a trifle more plainly; and then, as the old man gazed, the draped head grew for a moment more distinct, and then seemed to melt into thin air.
Chapter Twelve.
The Sexton’s Fetch.
“Why, Moredock, you are not going to tell me that you believe in ghosts?”
“No, doctor, for I don’t; and I’ve been in that church and the vaults sometimes all night.”
“All night, eh? What for, eh?”
“That’s my business, doctor. P’r’aps I was on the look out for body-snatchers; but I’ve been there all night, and no ghosts never troubled me.”