Page:The strange experiences of Tina Malone.djvu/49

Rh "That will be all right—Yes the £200 then," he said.

I knew it was perfectly safe with him and I had always wanted him to have a start. He was the soul of honour I knew, and had never had a chance to strike out on his own.

"But what does it all mean, Tony?" I asked, for my mind could not keep off these extraordinary happenings I had been through.

"Just that you have become mediumistic," he said.

"Oh, rubbish!" I said, for I had never believed in spirits, or fairies or any of the things occultists are so fond of talking about. "But what is it for? I thought it was you."

"Don't associate me with any of these nightly visitors," he said seriously and firmly. "I tell you you have become mediumistic. You can't help it. Shut it out of your mind—don't take any notice of them. I tell you I knew a man who had these exercises—they went on for five years. He thought it was an astral visitation—a woman—they were lovers. He thought it was sent from God. It is a disembodied spirit. If you go calling spirits you must expect this sort of thing."

He was laughing now. I notice that no one can expect another to take their troubles as if they were their own. It was a troublesome thing to think I had swallowed a spirit and there seemed to be no way of getting rid of it once it was done.

"Very well, then," I said. "It's not you, so now I know it's either a spirit or someone in his astral body. I'll call him Patrick—But—I—don't—know—why it's come to me—But those exercises!" I went on, "They were so marvellously given—The most perfect massage. But I thought it was you!"

The simplicity of the statement did not strike me as being in any way peculiar.

"You little silly," said Tony. "How could I send you exercises when I was miles and miles away. I'll come and see you this evening at half-past seven if you'll be at home."

I went home feeling anything but a "little silly." I had not done any of my housework and when I went in I cleared a table of a lot of litter and sat down to write a letter to my sister.

To my suprise I found my hand pulled to the right and jerked about in a most extraordinary fashion. I couldn't make it out. It seemed as if the pen were alive. I let it have its own way for a little and then an idea came to me.

"Why! this must be automatic writing."

I hurriedly found a letter-pad and let my pen scribble and scribble and scribble in the most insane fashion, forming all sorts of scraggly lines until a word appeared by degrees. I just distinguished the word "promissory," and my pen jerked and travelled on with a lot more scribbling