“That’s easily done,” said Morris, bravely. “It’ll be twelve by I get there; I’m off.”
He rapidly made his way along the back lane of the village until he arrived at the gate leading into the field, at the further corner of which stood the dark secluded ruins, from whose crumbling walls he meant to take the witness of his deed of daring.
He did not feel exactly comfortable, but would not give himself time to hesitate. He opened the gate, and noiselessly strode along the paddock, towards the haunt of Sister Agatha’s restless ghost. Lifting his eyes towards the hoary gables, standing gaunt and grim in the sombre night, he saw a sight which drove the blood from his beating heart. There, right before him, he saw the identical ghost of the suicidal nun! A tall figure draped in white, with cadaverous face, looking all the more deathly for the conventual linen bound tightly round the brow, and the dark blood-stain on her breast. She stretched her arm in silent menace to the astonished Morris, who stood transfixed with fear. Slowly advancing to the centre of the broken arch, she stood a moment in statuesque stillness, a low murmur rose from her bloodless lips, a lurid light shone round her and through her, culminating in a bluish vapour, out of which shriek after shriek echoed through the ruins. Then the darkness gathered as before, and the stillness was unbroken, save for the screech of the night owls and the twitter of birds which had been disturbed by the dread nocturnal scream! Piggy Morris, in a perfect ecstasy of terror, turned and fled, nor paused, till pallid and panting, he flung himself upon the oaken settle, saying,—
“It’s as true as Gospel! I’ve seen the ghost!”
The next day Piggy Morris was driving his light cart over Nestleton Wold, with half-a-dozen porkers, covered by a net, in the body of his ramshackle vehicle. These he was about to dispose of at Kesterton Market. Half-way up a steepish hill, he stopped to give his not too flourishing steed a rest, just where Old Adam Olliver was “laying down” a quick-set hedge.
“Good mornin’,” said that cheery rustic. “Good mornin’, Maister Morris. Then you’re off te Kesterton. Ah wop you’re tackin’ yer pigs tiv a feyn markit, as t’ sayin’ is; an’ ’at you’ll cum back wiv a empty cart an’ a full poss.”
“Nay, I haven’t much hope as far as t’ purse goes, but the pigs ’ll hev to stop, whether they fetch little or much. But I’m fair bothered out of my wits this mornin’, an’ not in good trim for making bargains.”
“Why, bless uz,” said Adam, “Ah’s sorry for that. What’s matter wi’ yo’? Noo ah cum te leeak at yo’, you deea leeak a bit seedy like. Ah wop all’s right at yam. Hoo’s t’ missis?”
“Oh, she’s all right, for anything I know. But I’ll tell you what it is, Adam. I’ve seen Sister Agatha’s ghost!”