“Now for Mr. Cathcart.”
There was a long pause. A small cat stepped out suddenly from the hazel tangle behind and eyed the two girls. Then, quite noiselessly, as it caught Maggie’s eye, it opened its mouth in a pathetic curve intended to represent, an appeal.
“You darling!” cried Maggie suddenly; seized a saucer, filled it with milk, and set it on the ground. The small cat stepped daintily down, and set to work.
“Yes?” said the other girl tentatively.
“Oh! Mr. Cathcart. … Well, I must say that his theory fits in with what Father Mahon says. But, you know, theology doesn’t say that this or that particular thing is the devil, or has actually happened in any given instance—only that, if it really does happen, it is the devil. Well, this is Mr. Cathcart’s idea. It’s a long story: you mustn’t mind.
“First, he believes in the devil in quite an extraordinary way. … Oh! yes, I know we do too; but it’s so very real indeed with him. He believes that the air is simply thick with them, all doing their very utmost to get hold of human beings. Yes, I suppose we do believe that too; but I expect that since there are such a quantity of things—like bad dreams—that we used to think were the devil, and now only turn out to be indigestion, that we’re rather too skeptical. Well, Mr. Cathcart believes both in indigestion, so to speak, and the devil. He believes that those evil spirits are at us all the time, trying to get in at any crack they can find—that in one person they produce lunacy—(I must say it seems to me rather odd the way in which lunatics so very often become horribly blasphemous and things like that)—and in another just shattered nerves, and so on. They take advantage, he says, of any weak spot anywhere.
“Now one of the easiest ways of all is through Spiritualism. Spiritualism is wrong—we know that well enough; it is wrong because it’s trying to live a life and find out things that are beyond us at present. It’s ‘wrong’ on the very lowest estimate, because it’s outraging our human nature. (Yes, Mabel, that’s his phrase.) Good intentions, therefore, don’t protect us in the least. To go to séances with good intentions is like … like … holding a smoking-concert in a powder-magazine on behalf of an orphan asylum. It’s not the least protection—(I’m not being profane, my dear)—it’s not the least protection to open the concert with prayer. We’ve got no business there at all. So we’re blown up just the same.
“The danger? … Oh! the danger’s this, Mr. Cathcart says. At séances, if they’re genuine, and with automatic handwriting and all the rest, you deliberately approach those powers in a friendly way, and by the sort of passivity which you’ve got to get yourself into, you open yourself as widely as possible to their entrance. Very often they can’t get in; and then you’re only bothered. But sometimes they can, and then you’re done. It’s particularly hard to get them out again.
“Now, of course, no one in his senses—especially decent people—would dream of doing all this if he knew what it all meant. So these creatures, whatever they may be, always pretend to be somebody else. They’re very sharp: they can pick up all kinds of odds and ends, little tricks, and little facts; and so, with these, they impersonate someone whom the inquirer’s very fond of; and they say all sorts of pious, happy little things at first in order to lead them on. So they go on for a long time saying that religion’s quite true. (By the way, it’s rather too odd the way in which the Catholic Church seems the one thing they don’t like! You can be almost anything else, if you’re Spiritualist; but you can’t be a Catholic.) Generally, though, they tell you to say your prayers and sing hymns. (Father Mahon the other day, when I was arguing with him about having some hymns in church, said that heretics always went in for hymns!) And so you go on. Then they begin to hint that religion’s not worth much; and then they attack morals. Mr. Cathcart wouldn’t tell me about that; but he said it got just as bad as it could be, if you didn’t take care.”
Maggie paused again, looking rather serious. Her voice had risen a little, and a new color had come to her face as she talked. She stooped to pick up the saucer.
“Dearest, had you better—”
“Oh! yes: I’ve just about done,” said Maggie briskly. “There’s hardly any more. Well, there’s the idea. They want to get possession of human beings and move them, so they start like that.
“Well; that’s what Mr. Cathcart says happened to Laurie. One of those Beasts came and impersonated poor Amy. He picked up certain things about her—her appearance, her trick of stammering, and of playing with her fingers, and about her grave and so on: and then, finally, made his appearance in her shape.”
“I don’t understand about that,” murmured the girl.
“Oh! my dear, I can’t bother about that now. There’s a lot about astral substance, and so on. Besides, this is only what Mr. Cathcart says. As I told you, I’m not at all sure that I believe one word of it. But that’s his idea.”
Maggie stopped again suddenly, and leaned back, staring out at the luminous green roof of hazels above her. The small cat could be discerned halfway up the leafy tunnel swaying its body in preparation for a pounce, while overhead sounded an agitated twittering. Mabel seized a pebble, and threw it with such success that the swaying
