The Luminaries

Ah Quee nodded.

‘Get yourself back to Kaniere,’ said Mannering at last, and returned inside.

VENUS IN PISCES

In which the chaplain loses his temper, and the widow loses a fight.

‘But who is this?’ said Lydia Wells. ‘A man of God?’

She stood in the doorway, half-smiling, plucking at each of her fingertips in turn, to ease off her gloves; Anna and Devlin looked back at her in mute horror, as though apprehended in some gross act of fornication— though Anna was by the window, her palm still pressed flat against her breast, and Devlin was seated at the sofa, from which he now leaped up, blushing horribly.

‘Goodness me,’ said Lydia Wells, easing one milky hand out of her glove, and tucking it under her elbow to begin plucking off the other. ‘What a pair of sheep.’

‘Good morning, Mrs. Wells,’ said Devlin, finding his tongue at last. ‘My name is Cowell Devlin. I am the chaplain of the prospective gaol-house at Seaview.’

‘A charming introduction,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘What are you doing in my parlour?’

‘We were having a—theological discussion,’ said Devlin. ‘Over tea.’

‘You appear to have forgotten the tea.’

‘It’s still steeping,’ said Anna.

‘So it is,’ said Lydia Wells, without glancing at the tray. ‘Well, in that case, my arrival has been fortuitously timed! Anna, run and fetch another cup. I’ll join you. I have a great fondness for theological debate.’

With a desperate look at Devlin, Anna nodded, ducked her head, and slipped out of the room.

‘Mrs. Wells,’ whispered Devlin quickly, as Anna’s footsteps receded down the hallway, ‘may I ask you a very odd question, while we are alone?’

Lydia Wells smiled at him. ‘I make my living answering odd questions,’ she said, ‘and you of all people should know that we are hardly alone.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Devlin, feeling uncomfortable. ‘But here’s the question. Does Miss Wetherell know how to read?’

Lydia Wells raised her eyebrows. ‘That is a very odd question,’ she replied, ‘though not because of its answer. I wonder what prompted the asking.’

Anna returned with a cup and saucer, and set it beside the others on the tray.

‘What is the answer?’ Devlin said quietly.

‘You play mother, Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, her voice ringing out. ‘Reverend: be seated, please. There you are. How nice, to have a clergyman to tea! It makes one feel quite civilised. I will have a biscuit, I think, and sugar too.’

Devlin sat.

‘The answer, to the best of my knowledge, is no,’ the widow said, sitting down herself also. ‘And now I have an odd question of my own. Is it a different class of falsehood, when a minister of God tells a lie?’

He balked. ‘I do not see the pertinence of your question.’

‘But Reverend, you are not playing fair,’ the widow said. ‘I answered your question without begging to know the reason why; will you not now do the same for me?’

‘What was his question?’ said Anna, looking around—but she was ignored.

‘Is it a different class of falsehood, I ask,’ the widow went on, ‘when the liar is a minister of God?’

Devlin sighed. ‘It would be a different class of falsehood,’ he said, ‘only if the minister was using the authority of his office for ill. So long as the falsehood did not pertain to his office, there would be no difference. We are equal in the eyes of God.’

‘Ah,’ said the widow. ‘Thank you. Now. You said just now that you were talking of theology, Reverend. Would you care to count me in to the debate?’

Devlin flushed. He opened his mouth—and faltered: he did not have an alibi prepared.

Anna came to his rescue. ‘When I woke up in gaol,’ she said, ‘the Reverend Devlin was there. He prayed for me, and he has been praying ever since.’

‘Then you have been talking about prayer?’ the widow said, still addressing Devlin.

The chaplain recovered his composure. ‘Among other things,’ he said. ‘We have also been discussing acts of great providence, and unexpected gifts.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘And do you make it your habit, Reverend, to drop in on young women when their guardians are otherwise engaged, in order to discuss, without a chaperone, matters of theology?’

Devlin was offended by the accusation. ‘You are hardly Miss Wetherell’s guardian,’ he said. ‘She lived alone for months until you arrived in Hokitika; what sudden need has she of a guardian?’

‘A very great one, I should judge,’ said Lydia Wells, ‘given the degree to which she has been formerly exploited in this town.’

‘I wonder at your adverb, Mrs. Wells! You mean to say that she is exploited no longer?’

Lydia Wells seemed to stiffen. ‘Perhaps you do not think it a gladness,’ she said coldly, ‘that this young woman is no longer prostituting her body every night, and risking every kind of violence, and concussing herself daily with a contemptible drug. Perhaps you wish that she had her former life back again.’

‘Don’t perhaps me,’ Devlin said, flaring up. ‘That’s cheap rhetoric. It’s nothing better than bullying, and I won’t stand for a bully; I won’t.’

‘I am astonished by your accusation,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘In what way am I a bully?’

‘The girl has no freedoms, for heaven’s sake! She was brought here against her will, and you keep her on the shortest leash imaginable!’

‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, still addressing Devlin. ‘Did you come to the Wayfarer’s Fortune against your will?’

‘No, ma’am,’ Anna said.

‘Why did you come and take up lodgings here?’

‘Because you made me an offer, and I accepted it.’

‘What was my offer?’

‘You offered to pay my debt to Mr. Clinch up front, and you said that I could come and live with you as your companion, so long as I helped you on the business end.’

‘Did I keep my end of the bargain?’

‘Yes,’ Anna said, miserably.

‘Thank you,’ the widow said. She had not taken her eyes from Devlin’s, and nor had she touched her cup of tea. ‘As for the length of the girl’s leash, I find it very wonderful that you should protest a life of virtue and austerity, in favour of—what did you call them—“freedoms”? Freedoms to do what, exactly? Freedom to fraternise with those very men who once defiled and abused her? Freedom to smoke herself senseless in a Chinaman’s saloon?’

Devlin could not resist countering this. ‘But why did you make your offer, Mrs. Wells? Why did you offer to repay Miss Wetherell’s debts?’

‘Out of concern for the girl, naturally.’

‘Moonshine,’ said Devlin.

‘Pardon me,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘I have ample concern for Anna’s welfare.’

‘Look at her! The poor girl’s half the size she was a month ago; you can’t deny that. She’s starving. You’re starving her.’

‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, spitting out the girl’s name. ‘Do I starve you?’

‘No,’ said Anna.

‘Are you, in your own opinion, starving?’

‘No,’ Anna said again.