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After a discreet interval, Westover said: "Mr. Whitwell, I must say good-night. I've got another day's work before me. It's been a most interesting evening." "You must try it again," said Whitwell, hospitably. "We ha'n't got to the bottom of that broken shaft yet. You'll see 't plantchette 'll have something more to say about it: Heigh, Jackson?"
She's said something here " "Well, never mind; I've got something more important to say than plantchette has," said Cynthia, and she pulled the sheet away from under her father's eyes. This made him look up at her. "Why, what's happened?" "Nothing. Jeff Durgin has asked me to marry him." "He has!"
Jackson's goin' to come, and, if you ha'n't seen him work the plantchette for a spell, you'll be surprised. There a'n't hardly anybody he can't have up. You'll come? Good enough!" What affected Westover first of all at the seance, and perhaps most of all, was the quality of the air in the little house; it was close and stuffy, mixed with an odor of mould and an ancient smell of rats.
He was that Canuck I had helpin' me clear that piece over on Lion's Head for the pulp-mill; pulp-mill went all to thunder, and I never got a cent. And sometimes Jackson comes down with his plantchette, and we have a good time." "Jackson still believes in the manifestations?" "Yes. But he's never developed much himself. He can't seem to do much without the plantchette.
Whitwell laughed. "We heard from you plantchette kept right round after you." "That so?" asked Jeff, carelessly. "Fact. Have a good voyage?" Whitwell had the air of putting a casual question. "First-rate," said Jeff. "Plantchette say not?" "No. Only about the broken shaft." "Broken shaft? We didn't have any broken shaft. Plantchette's got mixed a little. Got the wrong ship."
"Here, now," he shouted to Jackson, "you just let this feller and plantchette fight it out together!" "What's the matter with plantchette?" said Jeff, before he said to his brother, "Hello, Jackson!" and to the Canuck, "Hello, Jombateeste!" He shook hands conventionally with them both, and then with the painter, whom he greeted with greater interest. "Glad to see you here, Mr. Westover.
"Well, I wanted to, but he wouldn't hear of it. He's feelin' ever so much better to-night, and he wanted to go alone. I just come in." "Yes, you've got your hat on yet." Whitwell put his hand up and found that his daughter was right. He laughed, and said: "I guess I must 'a' forgot it. We've had the most interestin' season with plantchette that I guess we've about ever had.
"After he's been workin' the plantchette for a spell, and then leaves off, and she wants to say something more," Whitwell explained to Westover, "he seems to feel a kind of tinglin' in his arm, as if it was asleep, and then he's got to tackle her again. Writin' steady enough now, Jackson!" he cried, joyously. "Let's see."
I judge that if he kept at it before Mars gits off too far again he might make something out of it. I couldn't seem to find much sense in what plantchette done to-night; we couldn't either of us; but she has her spells when you can't make head or tail of her. But mebbe she's just leadin' up to something, the way she did about that broken shaft when Jeff come home.
Westover said, in a sort of absence: "Perhaps we're all broken shafts, here. Perhaps that old hypothesis of another life, a world where there is room enough and time enough for all the beginnings of this to complete themselves " "Well, now you're shoutin'," said Whitwell. "And if plantchette " Westover rose. "Why, a'n't you goin' to wait and see Cynthy?
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