Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘I cabled.’

Joe sighed.

‘You’re so terribly efficient, Sebastian.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But there’s nobody like you – nobody. I’ve thought of you so often lately.’

‘Have you?’

He thought of the lonely years – the aching longing – the baffled desire. Why did things always come to you at the wrong time?

She went on.

‘I never dreamt you’d still think about me. I always fancied that some day you and Jane –’

A queer pang shot through him. Jane …

He and Jane …

He said gruffly:

‘Jane to my mind is one of the finest things God ever made. But she belongs body and soul to Vernon and always will …’

‘I suppose so. But it’s a pity. You and she are the strong ones. You belong together.’

They did, in a curious way. He knew what she meant.

Joe said with a flickering smile:

‘This reminds me of the books one reads as a child. Edifying death-bed scenes. Friends and relations gathering round. Wan smiles of heroine.’

Sebastian had made up his mind. Why had he felt this wasn’t love? It was. This passion of pure disinterested pity and tenderness – this deep affection lasting through the years. A thousand times better worthwhile than those stormy or tepid affairs that occurred with monotonous regularity – that punctuated his life without ever touching any real depths.

His heart went out to the childish figure. Somehow, he’d bring it off.

He said gently:

‘There aren’t going to be any death-bed scenes, Joe. You’re going to get well and marry me.’

‘Darling Sebastian – tie you to a consumptive wife? Of course not.’

‘Nonsense. You’ll do one of two things – either get well or die. If you die, you die and there’s an end of it. If you get cured, you marry me. And no expense will be spared to cure you.’

‘I’m pretty bad, Sebastian dear.’

‘Possibly. But nothing is more uncertain than tubercle – any doctor will tell you so. You’ve been just letting yourself go. I think myself you’ll get well. A long weary business but it can be done.’

She looked at him. He saw the colour rising and falling in her thin cheeks. He knew then that she loved him – and a queer little stir of warmth woke round his heart. His mother had died two years ago. Since then no one had really cared.

Joe said in a low voice:

‘Sebastian – do you really need me? I – I’ve made such a mess of things.’

He said with sincerity:

‘Need you? I’m the loneliest man on earth.’

And suddenly he broke down. It was a thing he had never done in his life – never thought he would do. He knelt by Joe’s bed, his face buried, his shoulders heaving.

Her hand stroked his head. He knew she was happy, her proud spirit appeased. Dear Joe – so impulsive, so warm-hearted, so wrong-headed. She was dearer to him than anyone on earth. They could help one another.

The nurse came in – the visitor had been there long enough. She withdrew again for Sebastian to say goodbye.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘That French fellow – what’s his name – ?’

‘François? He’s dead.’

‘That’s all right. You could have got a divorce, of course. But being a widow makes it easier.’

‘You do think I shall get well?’

Pathetic – the way she said that!

‘Of course.’

The nurse reappeared and he took his departure. He called on the doctor – had a long talk. The doctor was not hopeful. But he agreed that there was a chance. They decided on Florida.

Sebastian left the home. He walked along the street deep in thought. He saw a placard with ‘Terrible disaster to Resplendent ’ on it, but it conveyed nothing to his mind.

He was too busy with his own thoughts. What was really best for Joe? To live or to die? He wondered …

She’d had such a rotten life. He wanted the best for her.

He went to bed and slept heavily.

He awoke to a vague uneasiness. There was something – something. For the life of him he couldn’t put a name to it …

It wasn’t Joe. Joe was in the foreground of his mind. This was something in the background – shoved away – something that he hadn’t been able to give consideration to at the time.

He thought: ‘I shall remember presently …’ But he didn’t.

As he dressed, he thought out the problem of Joe. He was all for moving her to Florida as soon as possible. Later, perhaps, Switzerland. She was very weak – but not too weak to be moved. As soon as she had seen Vernon and Jane –

They were arriving – when? The Resplendent , wasn’t it? The Resplendent …

The razor he was holding dropped from his hand. He’d got it now! Before his eyes rose the vision of a newspaper placard.

The Resplendent – Terrible Disaster …

Vernon and Jane were on the Resplendent .

He rang furiously. A few minutes later he was scanning the morning newspaper. There were now full details to hand. His eyes scanned them rapidly. The Resplendent had struck an iceberg – the death-roll, survivors …

A list of names … survivors. He found the name there of Green, Vernon was alive anyway. Then he searched the other list and found at last what he was looking for – fearing – the name of Jane Harding.

He stood quite still, staring at the newssheet in his hand. Presently he folded it up neatly, laid it on a side table and rang the bell. In a few minutes a curt order given to the bellhop sent his secretary hurrying to him.

‘I’ve got an appointment at ten o’clock I can’t break. There are some things you’ve got to find out for me. Have the information ready for me when I return.’

He detailed the points succinctly. The fullest particulars as to the Resplendent were to be collected, and certain radios were to be sent off.

Sebastian telephoned himself to the hospital and warned them that no mention of the Resplendent disaster was to be made to the patient. He had a few words with Joe herself which he managed to make normal and commonplace.

He stopped at a florist to send her some flowers and then went off to embark on a long day of meetings and business appointments. It is to be doubted if anyone noticed that the great Sebastian Levinne was unlike himself in the smallest detail. He had never been more shrewd in driving a bargain and his power of getting his own way was never more in evidence.

It was six o’clock when he returned to the Biltmore.

His secretary met him with all the information available. The survivors had been picked up by a Norwegian ship. They would be due in New York in three days’ time.

Sebastian nodded, his face unchanged. He gave further instructions.

On the evening of the third day following that, he returned to his hotel to be met by the information that Mr Green had arrived and was installed in the suite adjoining his own.

Sebastian strode there.

Vernon was standing by the window. He turned round.

Sebastian felt something like a shock. In some strange way, he no longer recognized his friend. Something had happened to him.

They stood staring at each other. Sebastian spoke first. He said the thing that all day had been present in his mind.

‘Jane’s dead,’ he said.

Vernon nodded – gravely – understandingly.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Jane’s dead – and I killed her.’

The old unemotional Sebastian revived and protested.

‘For God’s sake, Vernon, don’t take it like that. She came with you – naturally – don’t be morbid about it.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Vernon. ‘You don’t know what happened.’