The Luminaries

LAUDERBACK, Provincial Councilman, M.P., who casts damaging aspersions upon the undersigned, and therefore, upon all his associates, including the Westland Public Works Committee, the Municipal Council, the Office of the Commissioner, the Hokitika Board, &c. It is my duty to correct Mr. Lauderback’s errors: of propriety, of decency, and of fact.
    Indeed the construction of the future Hokitika Gaol-House was aided in the large part by a donation made by a Westland man. Mr. Harald Nilssen, of Nilssen & Co., donated to the Council a sum of approximately four hundred pounds, to be used, as per his personal instruction, for public good. This sum represented the commission received by him as payment for honest employment. It was, as Mr. Lauderback attests, a portion of the fortune discovered on Mr Crosbie Wells’s estate, to which Mr. Nilssen, commission merchant, was legally entitled, as payment for services satisfactorily rendered. Mr. Lauderback will be pleased to recall that, in legal phrasing, a ‘donation’ is distinct from an ‘investment’ in that a donation does not create a relationship of the debtor-creditor
variety
; in plain language, a donation does not have to be repaid. In understanding that Mr. Nilssen’s donation was an act of charity of the most virtuous and selfless order, Mr. Lauderback will further acknowledge that no laws have been broken and no regulations breached.
    I hold that the profoundest and most enduring testament to progress in civilisation is the creation of public works, and I am satisfied that the Hokitika Gaol-House will bear up under this definition in every respect. Should Mr. Lauderback find this explanation insufficiently transparent for his tastes, I cordially invite him to disclose to the voting public what he has hitherto concealed: that he has enjoyed a formerly intimate relation with Mrs. Lydia Wells, widow to Crosbie. I anticipate Mr. Lauderback’s full disclosure upon this matter, and remain,
    Yours &c,
    GEORGE M. SHEPARD
    When he was done Shepard blotted the page, reached for a clean sheet of paper, and transcribed the letter in full—creating a replica so exact, in fact, that one would have to compare them for quite some time before one perceived the smallest difference. He then folded both pages, sealed them, and wrote two addresses in his laborious hand. Once the wax was dry, he rang the bell for Mrs. George, and asked her to summon the penny postman for the second time that day. This instruction was promptly carried out.
    The penny postman was a freckled thing with a mass of yellow curls.
    ‘This one to Löwenthal at the
Times
,’ Shepard said. ‘This gets delivered first. And this one goes to Harald Nilssen at the Auction Yards on Gibson Quay. All right?’
    ‘Is there a message?’ said the young man, pocketing the letters.
    ‘Only for Mr. Nilssen,’ said Shepard. ‘You tell Mr. Nilssen that he’s expected at work to-morrow morning. Can you remember that? Tell him no complaints, no hard feelings, and no questions asked.’

MARS IN CAPRICORN
    In which Gascoigne finds common ground with Francis Carver; Sook Yongsheng acts upon a false impression; and Quee Long gives the avenger some advice.
    Aubert Gascoigne had what one might call a lubber’s love of ships. In the last three weeks he had ventured to the Hokitika spit several times, in order to meditate upon the fractured hull of the
Godspeed
, and to chart her progress as she was shunted, by degrees, closer and closer to the shore. Now that the wreck had at last been hauled onto the sand, he had a much better opportunity to look her over, and to gauge, with his lubber’s eye, the extent of the damage that she had sustained. It was here that he had come, upon taking his leave of Moody—having no other occupation, that Sunday afternoon , for he had read the papers already, and he was not thirsty, and the day was much too bright and cheerful to remain indoors.
    He had been sitting with his back against the beacon for some hours, watching the progress of the ship’s recovery, and turning a green-flecked stone in his hands; beside him he had constructed a little castle, the ramparts made of stacks of flattened pebbles, pressed into mounds of sand. When, some time after five, the wind suddenly changed direction, blowing his collar against his neck, and sending a damp chill down his spine, Gascoigne decided to retire. He stood, dusting himself down, and was wondering whether he ought to kick his castle