CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"John, you've got to try."

When Snow opened his eyes he thought he must still be light headed. Lillian sat at the side of the bed, a spoon in her hand, jabbing it toward his mouth as though he were a reluctant infant. It held some pink viscous stuff which Snow batted away. She pulled the spoon back just in time to keep it from dripping over the sheets.

"You asked for this stuff yourself. Now take it."

"I did?" It was real. He could smell her there, her mix of sandalwood and strawberry. And his own urine too, on damp clothes. The scene came back to him. Had that look on Caleb's face been compassion, or just curiosity?

"How did I get home?" He was afraid to question why she was there. He just tried to enjoy it while it lasted. She was no longer wearing black, but the same gray dress she'd had on the day at Hyde Park.

The old bed curtains around his head seemed as comforting as broken-in flannel pajamas. He touched the fabric lightly with his fingertips.

"Caleb brought you in a cab."

Snow rubbed one eye. He remembered now; not coming home, but being here, on the bed, shouting out to some blurry figure for his elderberry elixir. "Can I talk to him?"

"He left as soon as you were on the bed." She made another jab with the spoon. "What is this mess you wanted, anyway?"

"Elderberry syrup. For my kidneys."

Snow struggled to sit, but the sudden jab of pain in his lower back made him grunt and he gave up.

"It started with my father, too, at about my age." Snow took another spoonful with effort. "You get used to it, he told me. New waves of agony came and faded and Snow took a deep breath. Snow opened his mouth and once more felt the spoon slide in over his tongue.

When he was done with the bottle he lay quiet and stared at the lump his feet made under the cover, afraid to look at Lillian.

"I came to say I was all wrong," she said. "I'm sorry. I should have told you about it from the beginning. You were right to be angry."

Snow waited, afraid that any interruption would stop her story.

"Philip Constable was my lover. You know that now, of course. Since I'm keeping his son now, my son, that is, I understand why you can't see me. It's all right. That's what I came here to tell you. I'll go as soon as you want."

Relief washed over Snow, making him feel even weaker. He had to take a few breaths before speaking; he was afraid his voice might shake. "Is that all? All you were angry about? I can learn to live with your son. If you had only let me finish, this morning, you would have known that. I just wish you had told me." He felt, finally, that accepting her past was like accepting any other flaw that came with the package; bad handwriting, perhaps, or a tendency to snore.

She leaned over to embrace him. Though he felt so foul, he welcomed it.

Finally she stood up. "There's a letter from your father. It came an hour ago, marked ‘urgent.' Do you feel up to reading it?"

Snow opened it. His vision was still blurry but if he squinted he could make out his father*s cramped, angry writing.

John—

The money's all gone. Don't try to tell me it was a fool's thing to do. The Great Western shares tripled in two weeks, until they fell. We lost the house and the farm. Don't ask me to come live with you; I can do better than that with my last days. I just wish you had let me know, since you were in with Constable from the beginning. Didn't I tell you I bought the shares? All I can say is I'm not surprised that loyalty would come last with someone like you.

Snow started laughing. His hoots sounded hysterical and he stifled them as quickly as he could.

"What is it?" asked Lillian.

"He was right. I did forget all about his investment. My father's joined the club of the Great Western crashers." He started laughing again.

"Oh, no. How terrible for you."

He forced himself to stop again. "No, really. The farm was dwindling in value every year. Bad soil, a crumbling house. It makes no difference to me." He tossed her the letter. "It's his accusations that hurt. You know what he's like." He fell silent, staring at the wall. "You know, I don't think I ever loved him," he said quietly.

She read the letter in silence, then took Snow's hand and held it. "I forget who, in the Bible, said ‘Honor thy Father." They didn't have a father like yours. Or mine.

He didn't ask her to explain. He hoped there would be plenty of time for that later.

"Did Caleb say anything before he left?" asked Snow.

"About the cab fare, you mean? He paid that."

"No, no, about —" Snow found he didn't know how to put it. "Not much. He said you were ill at his office. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. He gave me this." Lillian pulled a note from her pocket and handed it over.

Snow unfolded it eagerly but was disappointed. All it said was, "Try publishing privately. I've written a note to Jackson's in Golden Square. They may give you a good rate."

Snow's first instinct was to feel insulted. He squirmed in the bedclothes, suddenly restless and hot. Only amateurs published privately. It would be the beginning of the end of his career. Caleb must have known that.

"What did he say that made you so quiet?" asked Lillian.

Two carts rattled by on the street. Snow listened to them, feeling removed from everything around him, and wondered what to tell her. She didn't know of his failure at The Lancet.

"I had asked him to help publish my conclusions about that pump."

She tensed, and asked, quietly, "So you got the manuscript back from Dr. Greeley after seeing me?"

"Yes. Don't worry about it."

Suddenly she started laughing. "No, I won't worry about anything Dr. Greeley might do. I almost forgot to tell you. You won't believe what happened. This morning when I went down for breakfast Olympia was gone. She wrote me a note. She and Dr. Greeley left for France together. She said I was too wild for her. Said she knew she would never get used to having Paul in the house, playing all that serious music.

This broke their tension. Snow, too, began to laugh. "You've got to be joking. Was he after her money?"

"What money? She lost it all, and so did Greeley as far as I know. I still can't believe she really did it. He always reminded me of the lizards that lived on the ceilings at home."

Greeley's pink-rimmed eyes, as the man clutched Lillian s letters, came back to Snow. He tried to suppress an image of his pink, wrinkled frame laboring atop Olympia in some French hotel room.

"And what about Caleb? Didn't he publish it?" asked Lillian. Her voice was serious again.

"No, as a matter of fact. Said it would cause a panic."

"What about that medical journal you were talking about?

"The Lancet? They wouldn't have it either. They said cholera s written about too often. They don't like the theory of contagion. So far no one has read about the pump, if you can believe it. Caleb suggests that I publish the work myself. Privately." He waved the note.

"How many pages is it?"

"What does that matter?"

Lillian said patiently, as if to a child, "Because the printer would probably charge by the page. And that's the only way I can know if I have enough liquid funds to do it."

Snow's face flushed with surprise, embarrassment, and pleasure. "I have funds. That's not the issue here," said Snow. Even as he spoke, he realized it wasn't true. He had about fifty pounds to his name right now. He didn't know how he'd pay Mrs. Jarrett at the end of the quarter. He thought with regret of the five-pound notes he'd flung at the man driving that wagon of water barrels.

"I'd like to do this thing for you. I know you haven't got much saved, if you spent the summer working on cholera instead of earning money.

"I can't let you do it, Lillian." Snow swung his legs over to the edge of the bed. Dizziness rocked him for half a minute and a surge of nausea passed over him like a wind.

"You shouldn't get up yet." She put a restraining hand on Snow's shoulder. "Wait a day."

"There's too much to do." Snow stood and pulled at the bell. His trousers were still damp. He felt as filthy as a man who has slept on the street for a month.

Mrs. Jarrett arrived and gave a short bend of her head to Lillian.

"I want this room stripped and cleaned," said Snow. "I'll sleep in the study until it's done. The bed curtains, the window drapes, everything. Send it out if you can't get it done here." He didn't look at her as he spoke, but started pulling his shirt off.

Half-dressed, he limped to the window and raised it as high as he could. A cool evening breeze, carrying smells of horse dung and autumn leaves, stirred his hair. The summer was over.

He turned to Lillian. "All right. You can pay for it, whatever it costs. On one condition."

She looked nervous, and asked, "What's that?"

"That you burn every page of those damned letters. I want to see the ashes." He remembered he still had one, crumpled deep in the pocket of his wet trousers. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and tossed it to her. "You see, they could end up anywhere." She caught the damp piece of paper without a word. They both started to laugh again.