When the tea had been poured out and the plates set ready to hand, Maggie began.
“It seems perfectly dreadful of me to have any doubts at all, after all this; but … but you don’t know how queer it seems. There’s a kind of thick hedge—” she waved a hand illustratively to the hazels beside her—“a kind of thick hedge between me and Easter—I suppose it’s the illness: the nuns tell me so. Well, it’s like that. I can see myself, and Laurie, and Mr. Cathcart, and all the rest of them, like figures moving beyond; and they all seem to me to be behaving rather madly, as if they saw something that I can’t see. … Oh! it’s hopeless. …
“Well, the first theory I have is that these little figures, myself included, really see something that I can’t now: that there really was something or somebody, which makes them dance about like that. (Yes: that’s not grammar; but you understand, don’t you?) Well, I’ll come back to that presently.
“And my next theory is this … is this”—(Maggie sipped her tea meditatively)—“my next theory is that the whole thing was simple imagination, or, rather, imagination acting upon a few little facts and coincidences, and perhaps a little fraud too. Do you know the way, if you’re jealous or irritable, the way in which everything seems to fit in? Every single word the person you’re suspicious of utters all fits in and corroborates your idea. It isn’t mere imagination: you have real facts, of a kind; but what’s the matter is that you choose to take the facts in one way and not another. You select and arrange until the thing is perfectly convincing. And yet, you know, in nine cases out of ten it’s simply a lie! … Oh! I can’t explain all the things, certainly. I can’t explain, for instance, the pencil affair—when it stood up on end before Laurie’s eyes; that is, if it did really stand up at all. He says himself that the whole thing seems rather dim now, as if he had seen it in a very vivid dream. (Have one of these sugar things?)
“Then there are the appearances Laurie saw; and the extraordinary effect they finally had upon him. Oh! yes; at the time, on the night of Easter Eve, I mean, I was absolutely certain that the thing was real, that he was actually obsessed, that the thing—the Personality, I mean—came at me instead, and that somehow I won. Mr. Cathcart tells me I’m right—Well; I’ll come to that presently. But if it didn’t happen, I certainly can’t explain what did; but there are a good many things one can’t explain; and yet one doesn’t instantly rush to the conclusion that they’re done by the devil. People say that we know very little indeed about the inner working of our own selves. There’s instinct, for instance. We know nothing about that except that it is so. ‘Inherited experience’ is only rather a clumsy phrase—a piece of paper gummed up to cover a crack in the wall.
“And that brings me to my third theory.”
(Maggie poured out for herself a second cup of tea.)
“My third theory I’m rather vague about, altogether. And yet I see quite well that it may be the true one. (Please don’t interrupt till I’ve quite done.)
“We’ve got in us certain powers that we don’t understand at all. For instance, there’s thought-projection. There’s not a shadow of doubt that that is so. I can sit here and send you a message of what I’m thinking about—oh! vaguely, of course. It’s another form of what we mean by sympathy and intuition. Well, you know, some people think that haunted houses can be explained by this. When the murder is going on, the murderer and the murdered person are probably fearfully excited—anger, fear, and so on. That means that their whole being is stirred up right to the bottom, and that their hidden powers are frightfully active. Well, the idea is that these hidden powers are almost like acids, or gas—(Hudson tells us all about that)—and that they can actually stamp themselves upon the room to such a degree that when a sympathetic person comes in, years afterwards, perhaps, he sees the whole thing just as it happened. It acts upon his mind first, of course, and then outwards through the senses—just the reverse order to that in which we generally see things.
“Well—that’s only an illustration. Now my idea is this: How do we know whether all the things that happened, from the pencil and the rappings and the automatic writing, right up to the appearances Laurie saw, were not just the result of these inner powers. … Look here. When one person projects his thought to another it arrives generally like a very faint phantom of the thing he’s thinking about. If I’m thinking of the ace of hearts, you see a white rectangle with a red spot in the middle. See? Well, multiply all that a hundred times, and one can just see how it might be possible that the thought of … of Mr. Vincent and Laurie together might produce a kind of unreal phantom that could even be touched, perhaps. … Oh! I don’t know.”
Maggie paused. The girl at her side gave an encouraging murmur.
“Well—that’s about all,” said Maggie slowly.
“But you haven’t—”
“Why, how stupid! Yes: the first theory. … Now that just shows how unreal it is to me now. I’d forgotten it.
“Well, the first theory, my dear brethren, divides itself into two heads—first the theory of the Spiritualists, secondly the theory of Mr. Cathcart. (He’s a dear, Mabel, even though I don’t believe one word he says.)
“Well, the Spiritualist theory seems to me simple R.-O.-T.—rot. Mr. Vincent, Mrs. Stapleton, and the rest, really think that the souls of people actually come back and do these things; that it was, really and truly, poor dear Amy Nugent who led Laurie such a dance. I’m quite, quite certain that that’s not true whatever else is. … Yes,
