‘Am I early?’ Mannering said, reaching for his pocket watch in a pretence of surprise. He knew very well that he was early: he had desired to arrive before the others, so as to get a chance to speak with Anna alone. ‘Oh yes—look at that,’ he added, squinting at the watch. He shrugged and tucked it back into the pocket of his vest. ‘I must have forgotten to wind it this morning. Well, I’m here now—and so are you. Dressed for the occasion. Very handsome. Very handsome indeed.’
She was wearing widow’s weeds, though her costume had been ‘enhanced’, as she might have phrased it, in various small ways, and these enhancements belied its sombre tone. The black bodice had been embroidered with vines and roses, stitched in a glossy thread, so that the designs winked and flashed upon her breast; she wore another black rose upon a band of black that was fitted, as a cuff, around the plump whiteness of her forearm, and a third black rose in her hair, pinned into the hollow behind her ear.
She was still smiling. ‘What am I to do now?’ she said. ‘You have put me in a dreadful position, Mr. Mannering. I cannot invite you in. To do so would only encourage you to arrive early on other occasions; before long, you would be inconveniencing men and women of society all over town. But I cannot turn you out into the street either—for then you and I will both be barbarians. You for your impudence, and me for my inhospitality.’
‘Seems there’s a third option,’ said Mannering. ‘Let me stand on the porch all night, while you mull it over—and by the time you make up your mind, I’ll be right on time.’
‘There’s another barbarism,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Your temper.’
‘You’ve never seen my temper, Mrs. Wells.’
‘Have I not?’
‘Never. With you, I’m a civilised man.’
‘With whom are you uncivilised, one wonders.’
‘It’s not a matter of with whom,’ said Mannering. ‘It’s a matter of how far.’
There was a brief pause.
‘How grand that must have felt,’ said Mrs. Wells presently.
‘When?’
‘Just then,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘What you just said. It must have felt grand.’
‘There’s a certain style about you, Mrs. Wells. I’d forgotten it.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes—a certain style.’ Mannering reached into his pocket. ‘Here’s the tariff. Daylight robbery, by the way. You can’t charge three shillings in Hokitika for an evening’s entertainment—not if you’re calling up Helen of Troy. The fellows won’t stand for it. Though I oughtn’t to be giving you advice. As of this evening, you and I are direct competitors. Don’t think that I don’t know it: it’ll be the Prince of Wales or the Wayfarer’s Fortune, when the boys turn out their pockets of a Saturday night. I’m a man who takes notice of my competition—and I’m here tonight to take notice of you.’
‘A woman likes to be noticed,’ said Mrs. Wells. She accepted the coins, and then pulled the door wide. ‘Anyway,’ she added, as Mannering stepped into the hall, ‘you’re a rotten liar. If you’d forgotten to wind your watch, you wouldn’t have been early, you’d have been late.’
She shut the door behind him, and set the chain.
‘You’re in black,’ Mannering observed.
‘Naturally,’ she returned. ‘I am recently widowed, and therefore in mourning.’
‘Here’s a fact,’ Mannering said. ‘The colour black is invisible to spirits. I’ll make a bet that you didn’t know that—did you, now! It’s why we wear black at funerals: if we dressed in colour we’d attract the attention of the dead. Wearing black, they can’t make us out.’
‘What a charming piece of trivia,’ said Mrs. Wells.
‘Do you know what it means, though? It means that Mr. Staines won’t be able to see you. Not in that gown. You’ll be quite invisible to him.’
She laughed. ‘Dear me. Well, there’s nothing to be done, I suppose. Not at this late stage. I shall have to call the whole evening off.’
‘And Anna,’ said Mannering. ‘What colour will she be wearing, tonight?’
‘Black, as a matter of fact,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘for she is in mourning also.’
‘You’re scuppered,’ said Mannering. ‘The whole enterprise. And all on account of your gowns. How’s that for a stick in a wheel? Thwarted—by your own gowns!’
Mrs. Wells was no longer smiling. ‘You are irreverent,’ she said, ‘to make sport of the tokens of bereavement.’
‘You and I both, Mrs. Wells.’
They looked at each other for a moment, each searching the other’s expression.
‘I have the greatest respect for swindlers,’ said Mannering presently. ‘I ought to—seeing as I count myself among them! But fortune telling—that’s a poor swindle, Mrs. Wells. I’m sorry to say it plain, but there it is.’
Her expression was still cautious; lightly she said, ‘How so?’
‘It’s nothing better than a falsehood,’ said Mannering, stoutly. ‘Tell me the name of the next man to bet against me. Buy me into my next game of brag. Give me the winner of next week’s races. You wouldn’t do it, would you? No, you wouldn’t—because you can’t.’
‘I see that you like to doubt, Mr. Mannering.’
‘I’m an old hand at this game, that’s why.’
‘Yes,’ said the widow, still gazing at him. ‘You relish doubting.’
‘Give me the winner of next week’s races, and I’ll never doubt again.’
‘I cannot.’
Mannering spread his hands. ‘There you have it.’
‘I cannot; because in asking me for such a thing, you are not asking me to tell your fortune. You are asking me to give you an incontrovertible proof of my own ability. That is what I cannot do. I am a fortune-teller, not a logician.’
‘Poor fortune-teller, though, if you can’t see ahead to next Sunday.’
‘One of the first lessons one learns, in this discipline, is that nothing about the future is incontrovertible,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘The reason is very simple: a person’s fortune always changes in the telling of it.’
‘You’re feathering your own nest, with that argument.’
She lifted her chin slightly. ‘If you were a jockey in next week’s horse race, and you came to me and asked to know if your fortune was likely good—well, that would be a different story. If I pronounced that your fortune was very gloomy, you would likely ride poorly, because you would be dejected; if I made a favourable forecast, you would likely ride with confidence, and thus do well.’
‘All right—I’m not a jockey,’ said Mannering, ‘but I am a punter with five pounds riding on a mare called Irish—that’s the truth—and I’m asking you to tell my fortune, good or bad. What’s my forecast?’
She smiled. ‘I doubt your fortunes would be very much altered by the loss or gain of five pounds, Mr. Mannering; and in any case, you are still seeking proof. Come through into the parlour.’
The interior of the Wayfarer’s Fortune hardly recalled the grimy establishment at which Mrs. Wells had received Aubert Gascoigne three weeks prior. The widow had ordered drapes, a new suite of furniture, and a dozen rolls of paper in a striking rose-and-thorn design; she had set a number of exotic prints behind glass, painted the stairwell, washed the windows, and papered both front rooms. She had found a lectern, upon which to place her almanac, and several shawled lamps, which she had placed in various situations around the former hotel’s front rooms in order to create a more mystical atmosphere. Mannering opened his mouth to comment upon the transformation—and came up short.
‘Why—it’s Mr. Sook,’ he said, in astonishment. ‘And Mr. Quee!’
The two Chinese men stared back at him. They were sitting cross-legged on either side of the hearth, their faces painted very thickly with grease.
‘Do you know these men?’ said Lydia Wells.
Mannering remembered himself. ‘Only to look at them,’ he said. ‘I do a fair patch of business with the Chinamen, you know—and these boys are familiar faces in Kaniere. How do you do, fellows?’